Guards! Guards! (Discworld 8)

“What is this place?” said Carrot, helping the others along a greasy walkway.

Sergeant Colon looked around at the forest of chimneys.

“We're just above Jimkin Bearhugger's whisky distillery,” he said. “On a direct line, see, between the palace and the plaza. It's bound to fly over here.”

Nobby looked wistfully over the side of the building.

“I bin in there once,” he said. “Checked the door one dark night and it just came open in my hand.”

“Eventually, I expect,” said Colon sourly.

“Well, I had to go in, din't I, to check there was no miscreanting going on. Amazing place in there. All pipes and stuff. And the smell!”

“ 'Every bottle matured for up to seven minutes',” quoted Colon. " 'Ha' a drop afore ye go', it says on the label. Damn right, too. I had a drop once, and I went all day.''

He knelt down and unwrapped the long sacking package he had been manhandling, with extreme difficulty, during the climb. This revealed a longbow of ancient design and a quiver of arrows.

He picked up the bow slowly, reverentially, and ran his pudgy fingers along it.

“You know,” he said quietly, “I was damn good with this, when I were a lad. The captain should of let me have a go the other night.”

“You keep on telling us,” said Nobby unsympathetically.

“Well, I used to win prizes.” The sergeant unwound a new bowstring, looped it around one end of the bow, stood up, pressed down, grunted a bit ...

“Er. Carrot?” he said, slightly out of breath.

“Yes, Sarge?”

“You any good at stringing bows?”

Carrot grasped the bow, compressed it easily, and slipped the other end of the string into place.

“That's a good start, Sarge,” said Nobby.

“Don't you be sarcastic with me, Nobby! It ain't strength, it's keenness of eye and steadiness of hand what counts. Now you pass me an arrow. Not that one!”

Nobby's fingers froze in the act of grasping a shaft.

“That's my lucky arrow!” spluttered Colon. “None of you is to touch my lucky arrow!”

“Looks just like any other bloody arrow to me, Sarge,” said Nobby mildly.

“That's the one I shall use for the actual wossname, the coup de grass,” said Colon. “Never let me down, my lucky arrow didn't. Hit whatever I shot at. Hardly even had to aim. If that dragon's got any voonerables, that arrow'll find 'em.”

He selected an identical-looking but presumably less lucky arrow and nocked it. Then he looked around the rooftops with a speculative eye.

“Better get my hand in,” he muttered. “Of course, once you learn you never forget, it's like riding a- riding a-riding something you never forget being able to ride.”

He pulled the bowstring back to his ear, and grunted.

“Right,” he wheezed, as his arm trembled with the tension like a branch in a gale. “See the roof of the Assassins' Guild over there?” They peered through the grubby air.

“Right, then,” said Colon. “And do you see the weathervane on it? Do you see it?”

Carrot glanced at the arrowhead. It was weaving back and forth in a series of figure-eights.

“It's a long way off, Sarge,” said Nobby doubtfully.