merchant, of Kuttenberg
“I run the shop outside the upper market, and I measure everything by the scale. A man's word is wind, but a groschen's weight is a fact.”
Things Kunz Engel had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the second day of May, at Vespers
Andreas brought the bailiff's man to the far strip today while I was turning the earth. My father gave me that land with his dying breath, and I will not yield a single furrow. He can wave his badly-scratched will all he likes, I will work it till the Lord calls me.
Nota scribaeHe struck the table when he spoke of the will, nearly upsetting the inkhorn.
the feast of Saint Mark, at Sext
A man came with news of soldiers on the Kolin road, taking half the wagons that pass. They say it's for the King. Which King, they don't know. The price of bread goes up, the silver in the coin goes down, and we are left to pay the toll.
Aye. Meat is dearer too, and folks complain at my counter as if I set the King's taxes.
Let them come into the mine. We'll see how they like the dark.
the first week of Easter, at Prime
Geoffrey Chandler thinks he can settle his debt of eleven threescore groschen with a heap of worn, copper-tinged hallers and light small groschen. I shoved the worthless scrap back across the tavern table. Let him know: the moment his term on the council is over, I will corner him and dun him till he dies of shame.
You insulted my brother Hugh in front of half the town. You will take the coin offered or take nothing.
Your brother is a thief in an official tabard, lightening the coins at the mint. I only take good silver.
Nota scribaeDictated loudly. The tavern keeper asked him to lower his voice.
the third Sunday in Lent, at Terce
The wind off the hill is bitter this morning. I stood at my shop unbarring the shutters, and my fingers were too stiff to hold the weights. Anna nodded as she passed by. At least there is still some civility left in this town, even if the silver is getting thinner.
God grant you a warm hearth tonight, Kunz.
Stop by at midday, I will have a hot cup for you.
Candlemas, at None
They say the Pope wants every man's days written down so the Lord has less reading. I say the Lord would do better to read the ledgers of the royal mint. He'd find more sins in Hugh Chandler's tallies than in the rest of Kuttenberg put together.
Praise be, you speak the truth. A groschen isn't worth what it was last year.
Nota scribaeThe merchant refused to state his sins, offering only his ledger.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
It says the strip is to be shared. You are a greedy fool, Kunz.
Shared with a man who doesn't know a hoe from a pickaxe? I think not.
Uncle, please, the neighbours are staring.