"Being right is more important than doing right."

  -Gods and arseholes

  The unbearable joy of punishing philosophers

  Five months after Herschel's escape, the warden of Zig-Zig was in his office, fuming — literally, as well as figuratively. His neck-high robe wasn't made for this desert heat. Not even the winter season saved him from the pitiless sunshine streaming in from behind him. But the windows were the rooms' only light source, and above all they gave him a nice ominous silhouette for visitor gaze into.

  His practised calm hid most of his discomfort. Behind his enormous desk, only a bulging vein in his forehead betrayed his mood. He hadn't been angry like this since before they built Zig-Zig. Fortunately for Weetie, the captain of the guard, his need for control held him back.

  "So, you're telling me you have no idea how long Herschel's been missing," he said in a soft voice that was somehow worse than yelling. It was like a cover of downy snow, but beneath it was black ice. Hard, cold, and treacherous.

  "Ssir, yess Ssir!" The three ridges on Weetie's head hadn't moved as she lisped out her replies.

  "You don't even know how he got out?"

  "Ssir, no Ssir!"

  Weetie stood at attention, exactly in the middle of the almost unfurnished room. She'd never fallen for the demeaning, low benches at the back. They were the only seats besides the warden's chair, and were only there to make others feel small. Instead she'd fixed her thousand-meter stare out the windows behind him. Staring into the sun was preferable to the abyss of his gaze.

  The warden's gloved hands rubbed at his temples. The captain had taken on an immaculate blame-acceptance stance, making no excuses and answering every question with a strict yes or no. In so doing, she gave him no rope to hang her with. Even her leather armour was in perfect condition, every pouch and strap screamed military precision. But at least without her shield and spear the lizard-woman seemed a bit dressed down

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  He looked past Weetie at the two sergeants on the back benches. They seemed ready to wet their armour, not an irrational look considering the consequence of solitary patrols. The Akri were all good soldiers, but the warden was great, and putting good soldiers into early graves was what great soldiers had always done best.

  "Find out everything about the escape and make sure you keep a close eye on the prisoners."

  "Ssir, yess Ssir!"

  "Weetie, look at me." He smiled, forcing the lizard to meet his brilliant green eyes. "If escaping becomes a trend, I guarantee the trend of your limbs being attached to your body will come to a painful end."

  "Yess ssir! Thank you, Ssir!"

  "Dismissed!"

  She saluted, made a sharp about-face turn, and marched through the room that occupied half the second floor of Zig-Zig's library. Her claws made a clickety-clackety noise on the hardwood floors. She was due for a trim; the Akri only let their feet-claws grow out for certain ritualistic duels. He hoped they would become ingrown and infected.

  With the guards out of the room, the warden reclined putting his feet up on the stone desk. Pulling up his robe, he admired the pattern of green scales on his legs before indulging in some frantic scratching. The seams always itched, but more so when he was annoyed, which to be fair that was most of the time.

  One reason he had the prison built on the remote ear of the tiger-headed peninsula called Zenon was that there was no place to go. Besides the empty waters of Stega ocean, there was nothing but sandstone desert in every direction.

  "I was so close, it was almost over!" he growled, scratching harder.

  But they would find Herschel. Soon, every creature in the west would be looking for his little runaway, because they all feared the Akri and their dedication to the nest — the same thing that, ironically, made them so susceptible to a little divinity.

  Once the lizard-queen had accepted him as a scaled demi-god, an Afreet of the Akri, the lizards had never questioned anything he wanted. In fact, the Dragon herself had intimidated the Trolls into giving him this stretch of land.

  When he then asked them to build Zig-Zig, according to frankly insane instructions, they set about seizing the Trolls' sacred rocks. Finally, mercenaries and Akri scouts had rooted his prisoners out of whatever thinky-holes they had hidden in.

  "It's a strange thing that half the continent lives in fear of the Shis nation. The lizards consider Weetie to be a strong warrior's name, but I suppose the names of killers have never really mattered to the killed," he scoffed, leaving his office and slamming the door behind him.