Grigor looked around. Everything he could see—the great room, the finery, the food, the lord’s spectacular Christmas costume, none of it inspired him. It was not God’s fortune, but the bounty of a thief: Villiam hadn’t worked for his blessings. The villagers had. That was the great tragedy of Christmas as Grigor now saw it. Not one word of gratitude. Instead, there was this stupid game. ‘I pray your death is quick,’ he said quietly. Villiam smiled. He took this as a compliment. ‘That’s very nice of you, but it’s not a question. Don’t be a loser—ask me anything. Winner gets a gold ducat.’
