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“There’s been an… issue,” said the altmer behind the desk. He was tall and slender, average enough for an altmer, with big blue eyes and a face like someone had taken a breton and pinched it in the front. At the moment, however, he didn’t have a haughty expression. He didn’t look down at the woman sitting across from him with a barely-concealed grimace, and that itself, thought Races-Wasps, was worth having been called into the bank by a terse and unkind letter.
There was even a subtle sort of nervousness in his eyes, the closest she’d ever seen an altmer to looking apologetic.
“With your bank account,” he continued awkwardly.
“My account,” said Races-Wasps.
“Yes.”
The thought of losing thousands of hard-earned gold warred inside Races with the petty satisfaction of seeing an altmer squirm. She crossed her arms—slowly, aware of the uncomfortable-looking guard standing by the door in full plate—and waited for the banker to elaborate.
The altmer cleared his throat. “It… ah, we have done some investigation and come to the conclusion that it could not have been anything that you’ve done that caused this problem.” He sounded annoyed as he said it, his eyes darting down to the thick sheaf of paper that he’d been restlessly tidying since Races had first walked in.
“What problem?” she prompted.
She would never have felt like this, would never have conceived of toying with an altmer like this, back home in Black Marsh. Back before she learned what sort of power came merely from having weapons and knowing how to use them.
“I’m… sure you must have noticed,” he tapped the papers against the desk, “that some of the items in your account have been—”
“Going missing? Yes, I noticed.”
“And other items appearing just as mysteriously. I suppose I can say the good news is that we’ve rooted out the cause of it.”
Races wanted more than the world to point out that it was his establishment—Eight willing, he himself—who’d made some egregious error, but she didn’t like to bluff, and she knew that the secret world of Tamriel banking was as complicated as it was ubiquitous. It was possible that everything could have been caused by some clerical error in Reaper’s March.
“And?” was all she could say.
“I’m afraid that your account number was duplicated four times at conception.”
He said it with all the gravetasse and sobriety of a healer reporting the death of a patient under his care, and focused on Races with that heavy caution native to people who still thought that anyone born with sharp teeth must be intending to use them on everybody. Unfortunately, she had no idea what a duplicated account number could have to do with anything.
The altmer took a deep breath and continued. “This means that there are four other people who have access to this same store of items and… ah, funds.”
“What?” She sat up in her seat abruptly enough to make the mer flinch. “Can’t you take them off?”
“I’m afraid it doesn’t work like that.” He tapped the papers against the desk again; Races hadn’t seen him so much as refer to them. “You see, because of the way these accounts are managed, it would be impossible for anyone within the bank system to know which deposits and withdrawals were made by whom.”
“Fine. I’ll withdraw my items and start a new account.”
When altmers purse their lips, the things shrink beyond comprehension. The banker’s lips near vanished when he pressed them into a line.
“What is it?” said Races, leaning forward. She heard the battlemage shift his weight, back by the door.
“The way this all works-”
“Yes?”
Those bright blue eyes narrowed. Races wondered how many racial slurs were flitting through his head, and which one won out.
“You were warned that the creation of your account was permanent.”
“Surely the bank making a mistake on my behalf would negate-”
“It doesn’t.” He nodded to himself, cleared his throat. “Either you withdraw your items and keep them with you, or you use the account the way it has been established. Nothing else is possible.”
“Nothing else!” Races protested. When her hand dropped onto the hilt of one of her daggers, she heard the battlemage’s sword scrape against his scabbard. She thought she could take him in a fight, fancy armor or no, but this was not the time or place to find out, so she made a show of lifting her hand away from the weapon. The altmer behind the desk, for his part, didn’t seem to notice or care about the exchange.
“Nothing,” he confirmed. “And there is one more thing that I feel I should warn you about.”
He did look at the papers, finally, but Races-Wasps had the impression that he wasn’t reading a single word from them.
“What is it?” she asked, in her best impression of a daedra’s hateful tone.
“There is a long established and, ah, unchangeable tradition within the Tamriel Banker’s Association—or Guild, if you’d rather call it that—which we’ve found to keep our clients and their assets safe and, well, accountable, in the strictest definition.”
“What is it?” Races repeated.
The altmer cleared his throat again. “Your bank account is irretrievably linked to your homeowner’s license.”
Races leaned back again, but not to best bask in the altmer’s clear discomfort, as she had when she’d first walked in the door. This time, her muscles had simply gone out on her.
“These people,” she said, “have full access to my home?”
He raised one eyebrow as he tapped the papers against the desk. “And you theirs, if that’s any consolation.”