stranded merchant, of Old Kutna
“I am a merchant whose trade is ruined by the mud and the war, watching my coin vanish.”
Things Karl Bauer had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the feast of Saints Philip and James, at Prime
If a man borrows a tin pitcher and it suffers a small break in the dark, it is no great crime. A bit of lead sets it right. There is no need for certain guards to go asking after it. I only needed it for a moment in the cellar.
Nota scribaeHe spoke quickly and kept looking over his shoulder toward the taproom.
the Tuesday after Saint George, at Vespers
Kunz Koch drinks his share and mine, and leaves me to worry. What if Oswald from the Mint comes asking questions? We should divide what we have hidden and be done with it, before we are all hanged for holding it.
Oswald cares about silver, not wax. Stop your shaking and have an ale. I have the key, and it stays locked.
Nota scribaeThe man was sweating profusely as he spoke.
the third day of Easter week, at None
I have counted the charcoal marks on the barrel three times. The innkeeper is charging us for ale we never drank. A merchant knows his sums, but these Kutters would rob a man blind. God's nails, I need a dry road so I can leave this wretched place.
You drink enough to float a barge, merchant. Pay the man.
Saint Gregory's day, at Terce
I lit a candle for poor Mathes. A good lad left to freeze in a ditch near Suchdol because some men who call themselves soldiers ran from the rearguard. If Heinz had stood his ground instead of fleeing the Cumans, the boy might still be pouring our ale.
Say that to my face, you sniveling coward. You were running faster than anyone when the shouting started.
I only say what the others say. God rest his soul.
I promised to keep an eye on him. It is a heavy burden.
the eve of Saint Matthias, at Compline
A miserable month. Drafted into the levy, stuck in the mud, and then the panic in the trees. We lost our cart and nearly our lives. At least Kunz and I saved something heavy from the wreckage, though it weighs heavily on my mind.
The mud was a curse from the Almighty. My own boots are still ruined.
Nota scribaeDictated in a hushed whisper.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Karl, where is my pitcher? You said you only needed it for one night.
I will bring it when I find it! The common room is a mess.
Keep your voice down about the cellar, you fool.