Guards! Guards! (Discworld, #8)

by Terry Pratchett

The significant owl hoots in the night,’”

Yet many gray lords go sadly to the masterless men,’” intoned a voice on the other side of the grille. “‘Hooray, hooray for the spinster’s sister’s daughter,’” countered the dripping figure. “‘To the axeman, all supplicants are the same height.’” “‘Yet verily, the rose is within the thorn.’” “‘The good mother makes bean soup for the errant boy,’” said the voice behind the door. There was a pause, broken only by the sound of the rain. Then the visitor said, “What?” “‘The good mother makes bean soup for the errant boy.’” There was another, longer pause. Then the damp figure said, “Are you sure the ill-built tower doesn’t tremble mightily at a butterfly’s passage?”

“I shall deal with the matter momentarily,” he said. It was a good word. It always made people hesitate. They were never quite sure whether he meant he’d deal with it now, or just deal with it briefly. And no one ever dared ask. Van Pew backed down.

“Thank you. Do not let me detain you,”

The man had eyes everywhere, none of them so terrifying as the icy blue ones