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So, escort, right? It’s like babysittin’ fat merchant tubs, makin’ sure no pirate—like meself, ha!—sneaks up an’ nicks their gold. Back in the day, them Royal Navy swabs’d escort convoys, all prim ‘n proper, cannons polished, sails stiff as a lord’s wig. Little known bit, arrgh—durin’ the Seven Years’ War, 1750s, them Frenchies lost nigh on 300 ships ‘cause their escorts buggered off chasin’ glory! Left the traders floppin’ like fish on deck, an’ me kind swooped in, savvy? Made me laugh ‘til me gut hurt, thinkin’ o’ them pompous admirals red-faced ‘n screamin’.

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When we get to the market, it’s chaos. People are yellin’, vendors are freakin’ out. I spot old man Askar, the butcher. He’s always got the best stories. “Detective! You gotta help! They took my best meat!” he wails. I feel for the guy, but c’mon, priorities!