Guards! Guards! (Discworld, #8)

by Terry Pratchett

Now a black-robed figure scurried through the midnight streets, ducking from doorway to doorway, and reached a grim and forbidding portal. No mere doorway got that grim without effort, one felt. It looked as though the architect had been called in and given specific instructions. We want something eldritch in dark oak, he’d been told. So put an unpleasant gargoyle thing over the archway, give it a slam like the footfall of a giant and make it clear to everyone, in fact, that this isn’t the kind of door that goes “ding-dong” when you press the bell. The figure rapped a complex code on the dark woodwork. A tiny barred hatch opened and one suspicious eye peered out. “‘The significant owl hoots in the night,’” said the visitor, trying to wring the rainwater out of its robe. “‘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?” “Nope. Bean soup it is. I’m sorry.” The rai...