pipe master of Kuttenberg, of Kuttenberg
“I am the new master of the conduits here, though Christ knows I wish I had never left Prague.”
Things Hannes Fuchs had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Tuesday before Whitsun, at Terce
The main fountain in the square is still bone dry. I walked out to the woods and saw broken sections of conduit. It is that Bylany farmer Robert, destroying the town works out of pure spite. I dare not go to him myself. Will someone ask him what he has done before the bailiff sees my empty troughs?
Nota scribaeDictated at a run. The man did not stop wringing his hands the entire time.
the feast of St Philip and St James, at Sext
If I am to find where the water crosses the monastery lands, I must see the deeds. Kunz Neumann holds them, but they say he is a proud scholar who would make a tradesman beg for a scrap of parchment. I dread the thought of asking him. Perhaps his clerk Gilbert would sneak them out to me?
Gilbert is too busy copying the Golden Legend to help a weeping plumber. Come to my lodging yourself.
He cannot come to my house. I do not admit tradesmen with dirt on their boots.
the third day of Easter week, at None
They say another levy is coming. The council swore I would be exempt if I took this job! I have my tools, they are perfectly oiled, but I cannot fix what I cannot find. That brute miner Alan knows the water table, but he demands ten groschen just to speak to me. Ten groschen!
Ten groschen is the price for Prague fools who know nothing about rock. Pay up or dig blindly.
Nota scribaeHis voice pitched so high on the word groschen that a dog outside began to bark.
the Tuesday before Palm Sunday, at Vespers
Lene and I have arrived in Kuttenberg safely. The council promised a respectable wage to be the new master of the conduits. But they failed to mention that Reginald is dead on the Kolin road and his apprentice took every map! How am I to know where the water comes from without a single scrap of parchment?
Calm yourself, Hannes. We are safe from the soldiers, and that is what matters.
the Friday after Ash Wednesday, at Prime
They sent word from Kuttenberg that Reginald the old conduit master was killed by highwaymen. God rest his soul, poor fellow. Up in heaven he will not have to worry about the town pipes. I have accepted the office and will travel there by Easter to take his place. I am sure he left everything in good order.
Reginald was a good man who knew the rock. We will see what this city boy brings us.
Nota scribaeDictated by letter from Prague, recorded by the bailiff's clerk here.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Keep my name out of your squeaky mouth, you Prague coward. My sheep need water, and your pipes leak.