miner at the deep seams, of Kuttenberg
“I am a hewer, lad. Fifteen years swinging an iron pick in the dark until my shoulders burn.”
Things Jan the Hare had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the eve of Ascension, at Vespers
That whoreson Heinz threw my purse back in the mud. He bit into four coins and tasted copper, and stood right in the street shouting that I was a coiner. I paid my tally for the loaves in good faith. Now I have no bread, and I am terrified the guard will see these foul groschen.
Nota scribaeDictated at the Hole in the Wall. The man kept rubbing his neck and sighing.
the Thursday after Easter, at None
I am losing three pennies a week using the foreman's blunt iron. Simon the Crook took my best hewing pick at Candlemas and always has some tale why he cannot hand it back. My neck is stiff enough without swinging a dull edge all day.
Christ almighty, Jan, I told you the haft needs a new wedge. You will have it before Whitsun.
He traded it for ale, Jan. We all know it.
the Tuesday before Palm Sunday, at Compline
Kvyetoslav gave me my change in the tavern tonight. The man never stops boasting about his friend Endres at the Italian Court mint, and how he collects interest on tools he lent out. I was too tired to argue with him, so I just drank my ale and went to my pallet.
It is a heavy purse that makes a man loud, Jan. You would know if you had one.
the feast of Saint Gregory, at Terce
I walked the long way round to the seams this morning to avoid the Kourim gate. Claus stands there with his crippled hand on his belt, just looking for an excuse to shake an honest man down for a toll. The guards are a blight on this town.
If you have honest coin in your pouch, Hare, you have no need to scurry through the back alleys.
Nota scribaeThe speaker looked over his shoulder twice before saying this.
the day after Candlemas, at Prime
The bread today is mostly air and chaff. I remember when old Barbara ran the bakery before the winter fever took her. She baked a heavy, honest loaf and never accused a hard-working man of anything. God rest her soul, up in heaven there is no bad dough.
Leave my mother out of it. She is gone, and flour costs double what it did when she was alive.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
I am not hanging for your false silver, Jan. Bring me good Kuttenberg coin or go hungry.
Heh, you should have spent them in the dark, you old fool. They all look like silver down there.