ore hauler of Kuttenberg, of Kuttenberg
“Fifteen years I carried silver for the German masters. Now I just want a quiet cup and no trouble.”
Things Nicholas Fair had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the eve of St Philip and St James, at Vespers
Franz sent another stranger down into Vlasta's cellar to check on me. I told him to sod off. I only have a little chill, not the plague. If Franz paid half as much mind to his own wild brats, he wouldn't need to pester a man just trying to rest his bones.
Nota scribaeThe man was shaking so hard he spilled his ale across my parchment.
the Monday after Easter, at None
Anthony and Baldwin went for day labour at the yards this morning. Hynek is busy at the wood, and Zdenyek tells me he sold a good load. Fine sons, all four. A man feels shame letting his boys take the whole burden, but my fever is fierce today. Just need to sleep it off.
Rest easy, Father. Maurice gave us a heavy shift, but the coin is fair.
Aye, though the foreman shouts too much. We will manage.
the second Tuesday of Lent, at Terce
There is talk in the town that the bailiff is making a new list. They say the King's brother has more troops on the roads, and Kuttenberg must send men. Let the young fools go get Cuman iron in their flesh. Once is enough for any Christian.
My brother Vashek writes from Prague that the roads are full of soldiers. Keep your head down.
Your brother doesn't write from Prague, Ernest. He's breaking rocks in a ditch.
Nota scribaeHe lowered his voice to a whisper for the last part, glancing at the cellar door.
the feast of St Gregory, at Prime
I told the young lads at the weigh-house not to lend a single copper to Hugh Miller. The man has a tongue as smooth as a polished stone, but his promises are wind. Vlasta treats me better for the few groschen I give her than Hugh treats his own creditors.
You speak out of turn, Nicholas. I have always settled my accounts in time.
Don't listen to him, Nicholas. The man wouldn't pay a priest to pray for his own mother.
the day after Candlemas, at Sext
The winter damp has settled right into my collarbone. Fifteen years hauling ore, and it's not the silver that weighs me down, but the memory of that bloody arrow. The surgeon said he got it all out, but I feel the rust grinding every time the wind blows from the east.
A warm fire helps the ache, Nicholas. Don't sit in the dark.
At least you don't have Maurice screaming in your ear today.
Nota scribaeThe dictation was interrupted thrice for him to drink watered ale.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
You are drinking yourself into a grave, Nicholas. My Zlata would weep to see you.
Zlata is with God, Franz. Leave me to my cup.