knife and axe sharpener, of Kuttenberg
“I keep the butchers' blades keen at the Lesser Market and mind my own business. A man has to look out for himself in this town, especially when he's all alone.”
Things Gilbert Smith had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Wednesday before Whitsun, at Vespers
Christ almighty, Peter the clerk's men were sniffing around the Lesser Market again today with their levy lists. A man can't even grind a butcher's cleaver in peace without worrying about being marched off to fight Cumans. I ducked down an alley. On my poor mother's grave, my chest is too weak for soldiering.
Nota scribaeHe jingled copper coins the entire time he spoke.
the Monday after St Pancras, at Sext
Anthony Fair and his brother Hynek were at it again in the street, shouting loud enough to wake the dead. I watched them from the alehouse door. Better entertainment than a bear-baiting, and it costs me nothing. I bought an ale just to enjoy the show.
He's a stubborn mule who won't listen to reason. It's no laughing matter.
You stay out of my business, Gilbert. And Anthony is the mule, not me.
the eve of St Philip and St James, at Terce
Sebastian is asking after his iron cap again. The levy inspection is coming, and he wants it back. I told him I left it at my other lodging to keep it safe from rust. It's the truth, mostly. I just need a lucky roll of the dice tonight to get it back from the pawnbroker.
I need that cap, Gilbert! They'll fine me if I show up bareheaded. Bring it tomorrow or I'm telling the bailiff.
Keep your shirt on, friend. I said it's safe. On my mother's grave, you'll have it before the muster.
Nota scribaeHe paused often to look over his shoulder while dictating this.
the second day of Easter week, at None
Reginald Wright has the nerve to demand his brass oil lamp back. He calls me a thief in the street! Did he forget Easter? He borrowed my only good carving knife, snapped the blade on a bone like a clumsy ox, and laughed. That lamp is lawful compensation for my ruined tool. I'm not giving it back until he admits it.
You lent me a rusted piece of junk that broke on a gristle! Give me my lamp, you whoreson, it cost me a week's wages!
It was good steel until your heavy hands ruined it. You owe me the knife.
the Monday after Ash Wednesday, at Prime
A cold wind today at the Lesser Market. My hands were freezing to the water bucket while I worked the whetstone. But a man must eat. Since my poor mother Svatava died of the coughing sickness, I've had to fend for myself with no help from anyone. God rest her soul.
We all have it hard, Gilbert. At least you're not paying Walter's rent for a shed that leaks.
Aye, God rest her. But you still owe me three pennies from Candlemas.
Nota scribaeHe shed a single tear, though he smelled strongly of stale ale.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
You and me both, Gilbert. Better a live coward than a dead hero on a muddy road.
You're hiding from the levy because you don't have the gear you stole, you bloody thief.
Mind your tongue, Reginald, or I'll sharpen an axe for you next.