guard at the inner gate, of Pritoky
“I stand the watch on the gate, boy, and trust my own eyes over any green recruit. I earned my place on this wall and survived worse than you.”
Things Maresh had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Thursday before Whitsun, at None
Andrew is whining like a hungry whelp again. A hunter knows to wait for the deer to step into the clearing, boy. You rush into the Kuttenberg markets with heavy pockets now and the provost will have our hides stripped. Keep your mouth shut and wait.
Nota scribaeThe man spat on my boots twice while saying this.
the feast of St Pancras, at Prime
Captain Bright wants the early watch standing straighter than a Sunday altar. Let him freeze his own arse up there in the dark. My eyes are tired and my joints ache, but I can still spot a smuggled sack of grain faster than these farmhands he calls guards.
Aye, my knees are worse than ever. The cabbage is mostly salt now, too.
If you cannot stand straight on the wall, Maresh, you can muck out the stables.
the Tuesday of Easter week, at Vespers
Benesh is crying about that hunting dagger again. He gave it to me plain as day after we had words last winter. I am not handing over good steel just because he misses Lawrence. A gift is a gift, and I will not be ordered around by a bitter whoreson.
It was Lawrence's blade, you lying thief. I lent it to you to skin a hare, I never gave it.
Give it back to him, Maresh. We are all tired of hearing you two bicker.
Nota scribaeHe patted a knife on his belt and glared at a man across the hall.
the eve of St Gregory, at Compline
Let it be written once and for all so I do not have to hear it again. I did not fall asleep on the watch last summer. The Cumans were in the trees, aye, but Lawrence charged into the brush like a blind bull. I could not save him.
You snored while the skirmishers crept up. His blood is on your hands, not the Hungarians'.
He was a fool and he died a fool's death. Leave me be.
Nota scribaeThe dictation was interrupted by shouting from the back of the barracks.
the morrow of Candlemas, at Terce
Another day checking freezing carts on the Kuttenberg road. The tolls go up, the bread gets dearer, and the bailiff keeps pocketing our meat money. We are drinking ale that tastes like rain water. If King Wenceslas ever comes back, he ought to string up every official in the district.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
We have been waiting since summer! I know a man who asks no questions. It is my share too.
You will get us both flogged, you impatient fool. Silence.