apprentice blacksmith, of Kuttenberg
“I hammer nails and tent pegs for a master who drinks his profits. My work is truer than his, though he would never admit it.”
Things Jan had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the eve of Ascension, at Vespers
Only a few groschen short now. Every time he turns his back to talk to the carters, a copper penny goes up into the loft. I will not be caught at the muster without my jack, not for his mistakes.
Nota scribaeHe spoke quietly, looking at his heavy boots the whole time.
the second day of Easter week, at Prime
Leonard the guard came limping past just now, his joints all swollen. At least he has a proper gambeson. If the bailiff catches me in this linen shirt because my master drank away my gear, I will be the one in the pillory.
the Thursday after St Gregory, at None
He tells me my hinges are crooked. Kurva. I struck them perfectly. He is just sour because his head aches from the alehouse. He drinks my wages and tells me I do not know my trade.
You let the fire run too hot again, you little shit! Be grateful I keep a roof over your head.
The iron was brittle scrap to begin with.
Nota scribaeThe lad kicked the dirt and muttered the foul words under his breath.
St Matthias's day, at Sext
Fourteen groschen. That is what Frantishek wants to give me back my own padded jack. It is locked behind his oak door right now. I bought it with my own saved pennies to survive the muster, and my master stole it while I slept.
You cracked a whole batch of iron! The shop needed the coin to buy more pig iron, you ungrateful whoreson.
I deal fairly. Bring fourteen groschen and the jack is yours. Until then, the door stays locked.
Candlemas, at Terce
The pig iron cracked on the anvil and he blamed me. Said I let the bellows run too hard. It was cheap, brittle scrap. Now he says it cost a week's wages, but I know he just wants an excuse to drink.
If you go entirely without food this week, boy, come by the tailor's stall. I can spare a copper.
Nota scribaeDictated outside the smithy. The apprentice's face was completely black with soot.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Mind your own business, lad. My joints are my own worry.
At least you have a master. I had to pawn Tuma's iron cap just to eat, and my mother Martha in Caslav would weep if she knew.