labourer at the weigh-house, of Kuttenberg
“I shift heavy sacks of ore at the weigh-house and try to make my coin stretch. A man could make a little extra if he had his lucky bone die back.”
Things Andreas Berger had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Wednesday before Whitsun, at None
The Pentecost market brings fresh players to Kuttenberg, and I am sitting here with an empty purse. If Ernest Polner does not give back my lucky bone die, I am a dead man when that carter returns from Prague. I only lent it to him for one afternoon!
Nota scribaeHe rolled invisible dice in his palm the entire time he spoke.
the Friday after Ascension, at Vespers
Ernest is badgering me again to walk all the way back to Miskowitz to carry a greeting to our families. I have barely a groschen to my name and my back is broken from Maurice's yard. Let them think we are getting rich here in the silver city.
My brother Vashek is a prosperous farmer and sends me coin. The least you could do is carry a word back to him.
Vashek is a poor quarryman scratching in the dirt, Ernest, everyone knows it.
the morrow of Saint Mark, at Compline
Maurice was screaming today. Someone dropped a crate of silver blanks in the mud yesterday. Leonard blamed Bohuta, and Maurice docked Bohuta's pay. I know what I saw happen to Leonard's back, but I will be damned if I open my mouth and lose my place in the yard.
That whoreson Maurice took my silver over a lie! If you know who really bumped me, Andreas, you must speak up!
It was deep mud. Anyone could have slipped, the Lord knows.
Nota scribaeDictated in a fearful whisper behind the weigh-house.
the feast of Saint George, at Vespers
Lent my best bone die to Ernest so he could play the teamsters by the church steps. Now he will not give it back. Says I lost it to him for a cup of watered ale. Vlasta's ale is not worth a plain wooden die, let alone my lucky bone.
You should have kept it in your pouch, lad. A man's luck is his own to throw away.
My ale is good enough for your thin purse, you ungrateful wretch.
the first Friday of Lent, at Terce
Lost three weeks' wages to a fierce carter from Prague. The dice were against me, and now I am ruined. I have to shift heavy sacks in the freezing mud just to pay him off before he comes back for my hide.
Better keep your head down and work hard for Maurice, lad. The dice will not save you.
Nota scribaeThe man smelled strongly of sour ale and despair, and could barely stand.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
You wagered it against a cup of ale and lost it fair, Andreas. Or bring me my copper plate from Hugh Miller, and we will talk.