The aide crouched in front of the iron bars, his eyes darting nervously from side to side. Inside the cell, Shylock sat slumped against the bars, surrounded by a semicircle of drunkards. The scene resembled the chaotic, degrading scene of a street hustler drawing a crowd at the marketplace.
Even Rocky, no stranger to prison, had never been held in such a wretched place. Sons of wealthy families always secured better accommodations; regardless of how strict the prison was, private cells were typically arranged.
But for a guildmaster to end up here…
“Handle the ledgers as I instructed,” Shylock murmured, his voice heavy with exhaustion. Leaning his head against the bars, he continued, “And send the fastest mercenary to deliver a message to the capital. That should be enough direction for you to understand.”
“Master Isles… I have something to tell you,” the aide said hesitantly.
