respectable tradesman of Kuttenberg, of Kuttenberg
“I am an honest burgher with clean hands and good cloth, who earned his place fair and proper.”
Things Markvart Schmidt had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Thursday before Whitsun, at Vespers
A man works hard to keep his hose free of dust and his name respectable. I walked the long way home past the mint today just so I would not have to look at the vagrants on the church steps. Saint Barbara's grace, why do the constables let them sit there?
Nota scribaeHe brushed his sleeves five times while speaking, checking the street.
the third day of Easter week, at Terce
I paid good silver for a proper set of war gear to show I am a true burgher. I lent it to Veit Muller for the muster, and now I hear Paul on the lower street has a piece of it locked in his pawnshop. I only hope Veit redeems it soon.
Do not fret, Markvart. A minor misunderstanding over a few groschen, that is all. It will be back before the muster.
A proper man does not let his armor sit with a pawnbroker.
the feast of Saint Tiburtius, at Sext
Took my midday meal near the guildhall today. Jarda Tanner said the price of bread is a scandal with the King's brother marching his troops about, and I nodded. It is good to speak of proper matters with established men of the town.
You agreed fast enough, but you bought the next round of ale, so you may sit with us.
I saw you nearly spill your drink when the door banged open.
Nota scribaeHe spoke very quickly and looked over his shoulder twice to see who was listening.
the Wednesday after Saint Gregory, at Prime
Saint Barbara's grace, a man tries to win favor and it costs him. I lent my very best trade tool to Veit Muller before Candlemas to help him, and he keeps finding excuses not to hand it over. It cost a month's hard work.
I am still making good use of it, Markvart. Do not be so hasty to cause a scene among friends.
Candlemas, at None
The weather is freezing, just like the winter the levy marched away to the Hungarian march. God rest my mother Milena, she would weep to see what became of the boys from our street. Maurice died of the flux in the dirt, and others came back ruined entirely.
Aunt Milena used to slip me honey cakes before the sweating sickness took her. You remember that, do you not?
I remember my mother strictly, and nothing else. Leave me be.
Nota scribaeDictated in a low, trembling voice. The man seemed terrified.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Some of that filth shared a blanket with you once, respectable man.
I do not know what you mean, beggar. My family is gone.