From the window, Mahala had a decent view of the village of Pelebris.

A small complex of stacked squat houses carved out the side of a valley. Narrow streets and steep greystone staircases flanked the buildings, decorated with engraved wooden beams. The bleak colours were dressed by the trees, full of autumn's glow, glistening like gold against the stone. Ladders of green farm plateaus descended the mountain, full of blackpearl apple trees and white blossoms.

“It’s beautiful,” she said. 

Hacksaw shrugged as he changed the bedding on the cots. 

“Do you get forktongues this high up the mountains?”

“Usually no. But this month, a couple passed by with wings. The Yarths dealt with them quick.”

She towelled her hair dry. Hacksaw allowed her to take a much needed shower, shedding the days worth of grime and grease. Her silky hair returned, her soft skin and pearly nails (regrown once more). She didn’t have her hair oils, her perfumes or couture dresses, but she at least smelt and felt clean.

Even her face returned. With every passing hour, the welts on her face faded some more. 

“Apologies for the clothes,” Hacksaw said, scratching at his cheek. “I’ll arrange for my assistant to bring you more options later.”

Mahala was currently dressed in a plain shirt and men’s trousers, probably his.

The Lady of Pomolin wearing trousers… the press would have a field day.

What was unusual was the leather corset he offered to go with it. It hugged at her waist more than any of her dresses would. Hacksaw even wore a similar one with a long apron that looked more like a skirt. The idea of a man having such effeminate wardrobe features should have looked ridiculous to Mahala, but Hacksaw wore it effortlessly. 

“Do all Shiran men dress like you?” Mahala asked. 

Hacksaw rolled his eyes at her. “No, they don’t. My tastes are as boorish as a Pomolish man.”

“Pomolish suits are beautiful and the height of fashion,” she said stiffly.

“Shirt, jacket, trousers. How original.”

Mahala’s cheeks flushed and she glared at him.

“Either way, everyone dresses practically here,” Hacksaw continued. “I would offer to take you on a tour of the village but the Yarths rather you stay inside.”

For a place run by a criminal gang, the afternoon looked peaceful from her window. A flock of children with matching satchels rushed to a crepe stall. A young couple were cuddling on a public terrace, overlooking the escarpment. Rows of elderly women were planting herbs, maize, beans and radish in farmlands. Woolly cattle were herded through the street without anyone batting an eye.

“What are the Yarths doing here? This looks like an agricultural village,” Mahala asked.

“The Yarths were born here. They’re proud ‘mountain men,’” Hacksaw replied, with a hint of disdain.

“And what are you doing here? Are you a hostage too?”

Hacksaw looked surprised. “Oh, um, not all the time. I am the village doctor. A lot of the Yarths are my patients and I can’t exactly turn them away. You’ll find no other doctor on the mountains.”

“Why do you allow yourself to be imprisoned to treat criminals?”

“Pelebris may be run by the Yarths, but not every person here is a Yarth. A lot of them are just honest farmers.” Hacksaw stood next to Mahala and pointed to the women tending the farms. “Their children have moved to the cities for a better life. The Yarths make up the rare young blood that wanted to stay and preserve their home. They breathed new life to it.”

The couple on the terrace began walking away. They passed by the children and also stopped by the crepe stall.

Mahala let out an unladylike snort. “New life? More like soured it.” Wail flashed in her mind again and his stale breath. “Are you distilling alcohol here?”

Hacksaw turned away from the window.

“Are you people mad? Even if you paid off the constables, how can any of you be fine with breaking sobriety laws? After everything my father’s been through!” Mahala said sharply.

“The Lord Protector isn’t here though,” Hacksaw said. “This little village would’ve died years ago without the Yarths.”

Mahala wrapped her arms protectively around herself. “You’re creating a breeding ground for vice. Poor father would be horrified to see you all keep repeating the same mistakes of our history.”

“It’s not a vice, it’s a sickness. Your poor father has criminalised their illness, pushed them to fringes like here,” Hacksaw said.

“Illness? Is that your excuse for what that man did to me?!” Spicy heat flared up her throat. She saw smoke in her breath and quickly clasped a hand over her mouth.

“I told you, no one needs alcohol to impersonate a monster.”

Mahala considered if she spat at him, fire would come out instead. She considered it longer than she should have.

“You’re Shiran. What do you know of our people?” Mahala muttered behind her palms.

Hacksaw didn’t even look offended. “I am a doctor. You are not. Your father is not. I hear he was a fisherman before a politician.” He caught Mahala’s glare and laughed. His face wrinkled into a rare smile. “Pomolin complains that Shiran women are too brazen. Pomolin don't know the potential in their own.”

Mahala’s cheeks burned crimson. She hid her face from him and sat primly on her cot. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I-It’s the wyrm…”

“I didn’t say I disliked it,” Hacksaw said.

“Doctor!” A muffled cry came from downstairs.

“Chan. It’s my assistant. Of all the days to be early,” Hacksaw said quickly.

Heavy plodding ascended the stairs.

Hacksaw rifled through the drawers and produced a cheap plastic mask resembling her father’s. It landed in her hands.

“Put that on. And don’t breathe a word about who you are,” Hacksaw hissed.

Even this far up the mountain, it wasn’t unreasonable to think they would recognise the Lady of their republic.

“So not everyone’s been bought off by the Yarths then,” Mahala snapped back.

“Érk pyiaek oh. Haven’t you listened to a word I said? They’re simple farmers who let the Yarths do their business here to keep their home alive! Now if you don’t want us both dead by the end of the day, put that–”

The door burst open. A portly old woman emerged carrying a giant laundry basket, nearly knocking Hacksaw to the ground. A creaky prosthetic took the place of her right leg.

Without thinking, Mahala put on the mask.

The old woman took one look at her and smiled broadly. All the laundry was dumped onto Hacksaw, burying him alive.

“Pond—!” Hacksaw began.

“Oh, were you the poor duck Hacksaw’s been treating all mornin’?” the old woman cooed. She clasped Mahala’s hands heartily. “What pretty gold eyes. You must’ve been a fairy in your previous life!”

Hacksaw found his way out of the linens. “Pond, give her space.”

“My my, where’s me manners!” the old woman said, still holding Mahala’s hands. “All the young ‘uns here call me Nanny Pond, except for this little devil.” She thrusted her chin in Hacksaw’s direction.

A part of Mahala wanted to slap the old woman’s hands away. She was part of this poisonous village. But those hands were warm, wrinkled and just like gentle Sister Zvie’s. Nanny Pond did eventually let go of Mahala, so she could smack Hacksaw’s arm.

“And shame on you!” Nanny Pond said. “Don’t think I haven’t recognised that she’s wearing your old rags! Do I have to school you in how to treat a Pomolish lady?”

“But I—” Hacksaw spluttered.

“Shame on you!” Nanny Pond huffed. She spun back to Mahala with a sweet smile. “Don’t worry, duck. I’ll get ya something pretty once the day’s over!”

Hacksaw rubbed his arm, downcast. “Pond, this is my patient, Jewel. Jewel, this is my assistant. She mans the reception desk… when she’s not bullying me.”

“Jewel, is it? Such a precious name! Your mama must’ve adored ya!” Nanny Pond exclaimed.

Mahala’s eyes met Hacksaw’s. Oh. Jewel was probably the name he or Yarths gave her.  

Nevermid Yarth’s gruff voice echoed in her mind. “A raw diamond’s fallen on our lap, and you’re worried it’s gonna nick your balls.”

It left a foul taste in her mouth.

“Yes,” Mahala said. “Nice to meet you, ma’am.”

“Ma’am?” Nanny Pond giggled. “Oh, no one’s ever called me that before! I can get used t’that!”

“I’m not calling you ma’am,” Hacksaw said.

Nanny Pond slapped his other arm.