The warden had to turn sideways as he passed through a narrow gap between two of the four privy buildings. As usual, he overheard some of his prisoners quibbling while doing their business. Before marching on to the easternmost cell-block, Oupsillon, where the Socks gaggle made their thinky-hole.
The Akri's capacity for violence was useful. Yet, being warriors they weren't great at thinking for themselves. In some situations, like investigating, it made them less than useless. He immediately figured that if Herschel had been missing any real length of time, the Socks must have known.
With philosophers for prisoners, this was a rare opportunity to hand out punishment. The Socks gaggle would take the brunt of it, since Herschel was one of them. A bit of disciplining was the silver lining that should stabilise his mood. Still, he couldn't understand why the long haired freak would escape now? Had he known something? The warden had been so careful not to give any hint of his plans for Zig-Zig.
He made a full turn in the dusty yard. Checking the wall of ingenious rocks, and that the guard towers were all manned. For once. He hadn't told Weetie about their runaway's Áettar blood. Because he was more familiar with those zealots of nudity than he cared to admit. Herschel lacked their horizontal pupils, the eyes of prey animals. Even so, the rust-red skin, the slender frame, and the black hair, all told the story of a half-breed. It could be a problem, the Áettar were all hard to track. But this too had bright-side, it might be the excuse he needed to send the captain on solitary patrol. Then they'd see how she enjoyed being the prey animal!
"Plaso! Get out here," he yelled at the red sandstone building.
"What is it," a surprisingly sculpted man answered.
More than a few of the hermits had taken the opportunity of prison-life to start lifting. Decades ago, someone had called their gaggle the amateurs of physical exercise. It'd led them to turn the yard in front of their building into an open-air gymnasium. If you could call lifting things exercise. The warden spent a few hours every evening in a cage designed for the purpose. Sparring against no less than three of the spear wielding lizards, wearing nothing but a belt of butcher's tools.
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"What can we do for you warden?"
"Tell the Socks to gather up all their writing tools and have them brought to my office." He was assuming not being allowed to read or write would be like taking away the air they breathed.
"Why?"
"As I'm sure you're aware, Herschel is missing. This is part of your punishment."
"No, I meant, why me," the leader of the leaderless Socks whined.
It was the same resistance every time. Getting one of the Socks to have the others do anything was hard enough. Even worse when it was something none of them wanted to do. He walked up and grabbed the old man by the arm, almost lifting him off the ground, and dragged him inside.
"Because I say so, that's why," he whispered forcing Plaso up against the brick wall.
"Whoa, chill out dude! No need to get butt-hurt! I'll get them okay?" He let go and stepped back with a fake laugh. Trying to act the father figure, forced to chastise children for their own good.
"This place reeks of old," the warden hissed with Plaso gone.
The man returned down the worn main corridor. Its stone floor curved to the middle, worn by years of scrapping sandals.
"That's it?" The haul of writing implements was underwhelming.
"Well, I don't write, I prefer to keep my thoughts for free form live-action discussion," the man-child smirked, "and we've been trying it on a larger scale."
On his way back to the office, the warden felt deflated. He'd overreacted, for the first time Plaso had seen a sliver of his real self. Also, the disciplining hadn't gone well. He'd expected fake indifference, hoped for an epic tantrum, but the Socks seemed unconcerned. Nothing worse than children who were indifferent to punishment, and they accepted theirs without even a moan.
"Philosophers! Can't refute their ideas, can't torture them to death," he hissed to himself.
Walking off some of his annoyance, he took the long way back through the discourse yard. His only comfort were beautiful gruesome daydreams of enhanced interrogation techniques. But he couldn't, he might lose control. Then there was no telling what might happen.
He had long ago realised arguing with philosophers was a lot like mud wrestling a pig. He could spend a frustrating time wrestling pigs only to realise they enjoyed the experience. That's why he avoided arguing with philosophers.
Perhaps the gravity of the penance needed to sink in? Maybe in time there would be protests, riots even. They might even take it too far, and he could justify sicking the guards on them. That would be a nice treat.
"It's important to have things to look forward to," he said, clapping his gloved hands together as he stepped back into his office.
He closed the door to the library, which was now off-limits to all philosophers. He hadn't seen the stone building this empty since before the first prisoners arrived, two centuries ago.