Guards! Guards! (Discworld 8)

Vimes handed it over. He couldn't, right now, think of anything else to do. He was probably due for a scorpion pit of his very own as it was.

Lord Vetinari examined the rusty blade carefully.

“How long have you had this, Captain?” he said mildly.

“Isn't mine, sir. Belongs to Lance-constable Carrot, sir.”

“Lance-?”

“Me, sir, your graciousness,” said Carrot, saluting.

“Ah.”

The Patrician turned the blade over and over slowly, staring at it as if fascinated. Vimes felt the air thicken, as though history was clustering around this point, but for the life of him he couldn't think why. This was one of those points where the Trousers of Time bifurcated themselves, and if you weren't careful you'd go down the wrong leg-

...

Wonse arose in a world of shades, icy confusion pouring into his mind. But all he could think of at the moment was the tall cowled figure standing over him.

“I thought you were all dead,” he mumbled. It was strangely quiet and the colours around him seemed washed-out, muted. Something was very wrong. “Is that you, Brother Doorkeeper?” he ventured.

The figure reached out.

METAPHORICALLY, it said.

...

-and the Patrician handed the sword to Carrot.

“Very well done, young man,” he said. “Captain Vimes, I suggest you give your men the rest of the day off.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Vimes. “Okay, lads. You heard his lordship.”

“But not you, Captain. We must have a little talk.”

“Yes, sir?” said Vimes innocently.

The rank scurried out, giving Vimes sympathetic and sorrowful glances.

The Patrician walked to the edge of the floor and looked down.

“Poor Wonse,” he said.

“Yes, sir.” Vimes stared at the wall.

“I would have preferred him alive, you know.”

“Sir?”

“Misguided, yes, but a useful man. His head could have been of further use to me.”

“Yes, sir.”

“The rest, of course, we could have thrown away.”

“Yes, sir.”

“That was a joke, Vimes.”