labourer at the ore weigh-house, of Kuttenberg
“I haul the heaviest silver ore at the yard so I do not starve. If the others did their share, my back would not scream so loud.”
Things Bohuta Alder had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the eve of St Sophia, at Compline
Carried a dozen loads of ore today. Two men's work, and my shoulders feel like cracked stone, but it keeps the coin in my pouch. Bread is dearer than last year, with the soldiers about. I will not starve in the mud for anyone.
Nota scribaeHe refused to look up from his calloused hands while speaking.
the first Sunday of May, at Vespers
Vlasta took my penny for this watered-down piss she calls ale. She is a grasping old crone, but it is out of the wind. Nicholas Fair is asleep in his cup again, hiding from the king's levy like a broken coward.
I am not hiding, Bohuta. I am resting my eyes. A man my age needs his rest.
the morrow of St Mark, at Sext
That crippled whoreson Leonard dropped a crate of blanks in the muck and told Maurice I bumped him. Maurice docked my pay. If I lose my spot at the yard over a lying runt's clumsiness, I will be begging for crusts. Someone ought to beat the truth out of him.
I told the truth! You stepped back blind! Do not raise your hands to me, Bohuta.
If I wanted to strike you, you would be in pieces. I just want my stolen groschen back.
Nota scribaeThe dictation was interrupted by a fit of coughing from the cellar damp.
the third day of Easter week, at Prime
We put the old man in the ground on Sunday. God rest his soul. Now Prokop will not stop yapping about that miserable strip of rocky dirt outside the walls. I am planting cabbages there tomorrow, and that is an end to it.
Careful you do not break your back on those rocks, Bohuta. Want to wager on the harvest?
You know exactly what Father said on his deathbed. I heard him, and so did you.
the Tuesday after St Gregory, at None
The wind through this roof is wicked enough to freeze a man's blood. Prokop says we should mend it together. I told him to fetch the thatch himself if he is so fond of our father's property.
I would fetch the thatch if you had not hidden the ladder out of spite.
Nota scribaeDictated at the weigh-house. He spat after speaking his brother's name.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
You work hard, boy, but you lack the bearing of a master. Look at how a real merchant stands.