Guards! Guards! (Discworld, #8)

by Terry Pratchett

The gutters of the city gurgled softly as the detritus of the night was carried along, in some cases protesting feebly.

There are many horrible sights in the multiverse. Somehow, though, to a soul attuned to the subtle rhythms of a library, there are few worse sights than a hole where a book ought to be.

The pain sensations, which had taken advantage of Vimes’s unconscious state to bunk off for a metaphorical quick cigarette, rushed back.

“We never intended this,” he said weakly. “Honestly. No offense. We just wanted what was due to us.” A skeletal hand patted him on the shoulder, not unkindly. And Death said, CONGRATULATIONS.