guardsman at the royal mint, of Kuttenberg
“I am a guardsman at the Italian Court, standing watch over the king's silver. I have the best sword arm in this mess, though it is mostly wasted watching merchant carts and German foremen.”
Things Maresh had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the second day of May, at Vespers
The quartermaster still sits on our wages. Not a single groschen since Ash Wednesday. My boots need mending, and I have to borrow whetstones because Hermann still has my knife. He claims he won it with those loaded dice on Saint Catherine's day. It is outright theft.
Nota scribaeHe pointed his finger sharply at the wall the entire time.
the eve of Saint Mark, at None
Else has locked her yard again and will not mend our gambesons until we pay her. How are we to pay her when the king's silver is lent out for the quartermaster's profit? At least I am not scratching a filthy rash like Adam.
the Tuesday after Easter, at Terce
Simon is still looking at me crossways. He thinks I should have tied a rope to his drunken cousin Veit in the woods at Maleshov. Hermann was awake too! Why is it my fault the fool wandered off for kindling and froze under a pine tree? I will not carry that guilt.
You were his comrade. You should have watched him. He froze alone.
I was asleep, Maresh. You were the one awake. Do not drag me into your mess.
Nota scribaeThe man crossed his arms tight across his chest when he spoke of the dead man.
the first day of Lent, at Prime
Another morning watching the German foremen strut around the mint. The routine is tedious, but it keeps me out of the ditches. I just wish I had a proper cut of roasted meat instead of this hard bread. And a knife to cut it with.
the morrow of Candlemas, at Sext
I still cannot sleep without thinking of poor Franz taking the bloody flux on that miserable road to Maleshov. Shivering in a ditch in the freezing rain. I pray to Saint George I never catch a wasting sickness like that. Andrew says he was too weak for the life, but it was a hard death.
If he had been given a place by the fire, he would have lived.
Dead men do not need good wool. Or groschen.
Nota scribaeDictated at the tavern.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
The dice were fair, Maresh. You lost. A man pays his debts, and the knife is mine.
You are a thief, Hermann. Keep it in your sheath and see what good it does you.
Stop whining, both of you. You sound like Wolfgang begging for coin.