“They made rocking horses here.”
“Really? I’ve always thought there was something slightly sinister about rocking horses,” said Lord Vetinari, but he looked subtly disappointed. Then he brightened up. He pointed to the big stone on which the type was arranged.
“Aha,” he said. “Innocently taken from the overgrown ruins of a megalithic stone circle, this stone is redolent with the blood of thousands, I have no doubt, who will emerge to seek revenge, you may depend upon it.”
“It was cut specially for me by my brother,” said Gunilla. “And I don’t have to take that kind of talk, mister. Who do you think you are, coming in here and talking daft like that?”
William stepped forward at a healthy fraction of the speed of terror. “I wonder if I might just take Mr. Goodmountain aside and explain one or two things to him?” he said quickly.
The Patrician’s bright, enquiring smile did not so much as flicker.
“What a good idea,” he said, as William frog-marched the dwarf to a corner. “He will be sure to thank you for it later.”
Lord Vetinari stood leaning on his stick and looking at the press with an air of benevolent interest, while behind him William de Worde explained the political realities of Ankh-Morpork, especially those relating to sudden death. With gestures.
-The Truth, Terry Pratchett