errand runner and crate hauler, of Kuttenberg
“I run the merchants' errands and haul their heavy crates when they finally bother to show up. A man has to make his own luck to keep from starving in this town.”
Things Maresh Fuller had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the eve of Ascension, at Vespers
The bailiff's men are squawking about the muster again. A man can't even stand by the church without being ordered to show his war gear. If the merchants paid a decent wage, maybe we wouldn't all be desperate.
Nota scribaeDictated in a great hurry while looking down the street.
the second day of Easter week, at None
Saw young Christopher mooning about again, scratching out more awful rhymes for that washer girl Dorothy. I told him a man with an empty belly has no business sighing over a penniless maid in Kolin. He should try his luck with the dice behind the church instead.
She has a pure heart, Maresh. And the dice won't keep you warm when you are old.
Neither will a poem, lad. I will take a lucky throw over your pure heart any day.
the Tuesday after Saint Ambrose, at Sext
Lene cut me off today. Thirty pennies on the slate she says, and not a drop more cabbage soup until I pay up. Bloody hell, how is a man supposed to hoist merchant crates if he is starving to death? Might see if Henslin will lend me a groschen.
Do not even ask, Maresh. I know your tricks, and my purse stays shut.
Pay what you owe, you lazy rat, or you can eat the mud in the square.
Nota scribaeThe slate at the ale-wife's cellar actually says thirty-two pennies, but I wrote what he asked.
the feast of Saint Gregory, at Prime
I nearly dropped a crate laughing this morning. Henslin Schmidt is still hauling his bones around like a slow mule, keeping Albrecht's copper engraving plate locked up over ten miserable groschen. Men with silver in their pockets act like the greatest fools in Bohemia.
It is not a laughing matter! That plate is my livelihood, and Henslin is a stubborn old ass.
Then pay him his ten groschen and stop weeping in the square about it.
the day after Candlemas, at Terce
The silver shipments are late and the frost is thick enough to snap a wagon axle. I was shivering so badly I could barely stand. I had to take a certain padded jack I was looking after to the broker. Just a quick loan until the spring trade picks up.
What do you mean, a certain jack? If you pawned my coat, I will skin you alive!
You brought this on yourself, Ernest, trusting a man who sleeps above a dyer's shed.
Nota scribaeHe shifted his feet and rubbed his hands together the entire time he spoke.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
You wouldn't be desperate if you had my padded jack, you whoreson. Bring it to the mill tomorrow or I'll break your jaw.
Saint Jude is my witness, Ernest, I am just getting the sleeves mended for you.