Sworded Affair

Chapter 103 : Doubling Money

"Everything looks to be in order," The receptionist acknowledged, after carefully examining each and every page. "How can I help you today, Miss Gram?"

"Remind me, how much do we have in the account, and what's accessible here and now?" Emma asked, reading the lines that appeared dead centre in her vision like a teleprompter.

"You have twelve thousand, five hundred and three Thrones available for immediate withdrawal. An additional one thousand Thrones make up the minimum deposit amount, and cannot be withdrawn without closing the account. Your account is a Timeless Vault, subject to a fixed fee of one hundred Thrones every calendar year, to be collected on the anniversary of the account opening.

In accordance with standard Empire policy on atemporal financial holdings, originally established as part of the Nicaean Protocol in 394, no interest is paid for monies stored in a Timeless Vault. In return for forfeiting any and all profit over time, a Timeless Vault is exempt from any and all capital gains taxation that would ordinarily be levied upon monies at the time of withdrawal."

[Bonus Objective: Find out how much money Edith Knight has left in her bank account (DONE)]

"Hold on," Emma frowned. "If I took money out today to pay a merchant from the past, relative to where I am, doesn't that mean there's now two of the same coin in circulation?"

"That does happen," The receptionist confirmed. "But so does minting more coins, and the loss and damage of existing coinage. Inflation and deflation will exist wherever there is currency; the Imperial Central Bank monitors and can intervene where the situation gets out of hand."

[The Bank employs precognitives to trace the path each Throne has taken. I occasionally give seminars to the more talented among them. Ask for a thousand.]

"We'd like to withdraw a thousand Thrones," Emma requested, patting the saddlebags on Sir Bearington for emphasis as she quickly pivoted away from the economics of time travel, towards something that wouldn't give her a pounding headache.

[100 EXP gained for knowing when to quit.]

"One thousand Thrones," The receptionist repeated, busying himself with many clicks of his mouse.

After fifty clicks, the mouse pulled its tail from the computer and scampered off under the desk with a loud squeak.

"The funds have been prepared for disbursement, Miss Gram. Now, as this transaction exceeds five hundred Thrones, I'm obligated to ask you a few questions to ensure the security of customer funds."

"I filled in twenty pages not long ago," Emma interrupted, her patience wearing thin.

Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

"That was for the customer background check, this is for fraud detection; different departments I'm afraid. Now, first question, have you or your relatives been contacted by a stranger, demanding that you make this transaction?"

[No, we won't be wasting our time with that nonsense. Stab the computer in the bottom left. Your left.]

Emma called Epitaph to her, more than eager to be done with banking for the day. The receptionist reacted with commendable speed for a civilian, tapping a pendant at his neck that wrapped him in a glowing force-field. It was pointless of course, since he wasn't the target.

[Can I Play with Madness?

Status condition: Insanity inflicted.]

The clinking of coins filled Emma's ears, like the slot machine at the local arcade that she definitely never played once in her life. Sir Bearington chuffed as his saddlebags sagged, a thousand coins adding a small but noticeable weight to the burden he carried. Emma ordered him to turn, keen to start working her way through her shopping list.

"A penalty of five hundred Thrones will be charged to your account for destruction of bank property," The receptionist warned her retreating back, though he took no effort to halt her departure.

[Time is money; for the wealthy, fines are simply the cost of doing business.]

On that lovely note, Emma charted a path to the exit, not deigning to respond to the receptionist. Sir Bearington halted at the threshold to the great outdoors, waiting patiently until the clinking of coins stopped for good. Only then did he take the final step, leaving the bank behind at last.

---

"The Kimaris family are postponing the wedding?"

Matriarch Amdusias was rarely caught off guard in the conduct of her business. That came with the territory of ruling one of England's oldest magical families: in her service, a sprawling information network worked day and night to detect any threat to her family, be they foreign or domestic. If there had been any inkling of cold feet amongst the Kimaris, she would have already received a report of it: servants loved to gossip, and hers was an authority over all words written or spoken. Unfortunately, an intelligence apparatus fell short of true precognition, and it was still possible to be taken by surprise.

"Unplanned then," The Matriarch concluded. "A setback Patriarch Kimaris does not believe can be set right in time, or rather, it will take more time to fix than the previous calendar allowed for. An injury perhaps? Or an illness. Demonic blood makes us resistant to such things, but that's far from absolute."

Crumpling the letter in her hands, the Matriarch tossed it in the shredder her office kept at all times for sensitive material. The timing was poor to put it mildly; the aftermath of the terminus was an excellent time to conceive, and the longer the delay the less benefit any children would gain from the ambient mana in the air. Her first instinct was to rush for the Kimaris manor, barging through the door to demand answers. Caution stayed her hand in the end though; charging into the unknown was a risky proposition, and if Marius was ill with something strong enough to put a demon under, then that would just be the height of foolishness.

"You have to fix this!" Her daughter demanded, hands on hips in a rather shocking breach of decorum.

The Matriarch couldn't blame her daughter though; not after the time and effort the latter had spent perfecting the Black Widow formation. There was only a small window of opportunity for it to be used to ensnare and consume the soul of the unwitting groom; by the next Summer Solstice all would be lost.

"...Prepare the summoning circle. Issue a hunt for feral demons, we'll need at least thirteen times thirteen by dawn. There's no time to skimp, we'll use our best rite of divination."

It wasn't paranoia when everyone truly was out to get her, and she hadn't survived in her prestigious position for three centuries by being careless. Someone was doing their best to throw a spanner in the works, and the Matriarch vowed to find them.