This may be a minor one, but I really like the relief of the Klatchian commander:
The commander swallowed. 'We give in', he said. 'What, just like that, sir?' said his sergeant. 'Without a fight?' 'Yes, sergeant. Without a fight. This man can make water run uphill and he has a commander. I love the idea of giving in without a fight. I've fought for ten years and giving in without a fight is what I've always wanted to do.'
It is a small thing, but... Lady Sybil has been occupying her mind with knitting socks for Vimes.
'Er... how long do you think my legs are?'
'Um...' She looked at the knitting. 'Do you need a scarf?'
And a couple of pages later, when Vimes has been summoned to an audience with Vetinari (accompanied, of course, by Sybil), he's wearing a scarf.
"Good evening, Sir Samuel, and may I say what a nice scarf you're wearing."
It's mixed with a bit of embarrassment and an uncomfortable feeling, but it's still strangely heartwarming when the crossdressing Nobby, having been denied access to the pub, is approached by the Klatchian women who include him in their group without a second thought.
At the end Vetinariknocks over his chair. Why? Vimes has called his defusion of the war being "bought and sold" in regards to the volunteer soldiers. And that's the man who was calm and quiet while being shot. There are few things that can make Vetinari lose his calm, and we just learned one of them.
“I'm bought and sold, aren't I?” said Vimes, shaking his head. “Bought and sold.” “Not at all,” said Vetinari. “Yes, I am. We all are. Even Rust. And all those poor buggers who went off to get slaughtered. We're not part of the big picture, right? We're just bought and sold.” Vetinari was suddenly in front of Vimes, his chair hitting the floor behind his desk. “Really? Men marched away, Vimes. And men marched back. How glorious the battles would have been that they never had to fight!” He hesitated, and then shrugged. “And you say bought and sold? All right. But not, I think, needlessly spent.”
This scene at the end.
They looked up at the Klatchian's Head, on its spike.
“It's only wooden,” said Colon.
Nobby said nothing.
“And it's, like, part of our traditional heritage an' that,” Colon went on, but hesitantly, as if he didn't believe his own voice.
Nobby blew his nose again, an exercise which, with all its little arpeggios and flourishes, went on for some time.
The sergeant gave in. Some things didn't seem quite the same any more, he had to admit. “I've never really liked the place. Let's go to the Bunch of Grapes then, all right?”
“Anyway, the beer here is frankly piss,” said Colon.