Guards! Guards! (Discworld 8)

A sense of terrifying admiration overcame him. He wondered what it was like in the Patrician's mind. All cold and shiny, he thought, all blued steel and icicles and little wheels clicking along like a huge clock. The kind of mind that would carefully consider its own downfall and turn it to advantage.

It was a perfectly normal dungeon door, but it all depended on your sense of perspective.

In this dungeon the Patrician could hold off the world.

All that was on the outside was the lock.

All the bolts and bars were on the inside.

...

The rank clambered awkwardly across the damp rooftops as the morning mist was boiled off by the sun. Not that there would be any clear air today-sticky swathes of smoke and stale steam wreathed the city and filled the air with the sad smell of dampened cinders.

“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.”