The Masked City by Genevieve Cogman

to power -
    ‘Argent?’ Irene could feel her frown growing. It was only a matter of languages, after all: silver,
argent
…
    - at which point both Fae left that world, and I believe they were disciplined by higher-ranking members of their race. I personally have not encountered the gentleman again …
    Irene skimmed down the rest of the entry. Nothing useful, just a few notes about Guantes apparently being manipulative, but prone to distraction by his own cleverness. The sort of schemer who’d come up with new schemes in the middle of ongoing ones and lose track of his ultimate objectives.
    A thought struck her, and she checked the circumstances of Rhadamanthys’ death. Died in an accident with a diving bell in the River Dnieper. This was during a Russian revolution, while he was trying to retrieve some volumes of epic poetry. Probably nothing to do with Guantes. Probably.
    She tried looking up obvious translations of ‘gloves’ and ‘silver’. With Russian she got lucky, and found an account of one Fae known as Prince Serebro a hundred years ago. He had an ongoing feud with a Lord Perchatka (Serebro had won). During this, the Librarian who’d recorded the entry had looted forbidden works under the Cathedral of the Black Madonna. Nothing definite on the pair, but certainly suggestive.
    She was conscious of time ticking away. Quickly she composed an email to her mentor Coppelia, including the salient facts and a request whether the older Librarian knew anything relevant. Irene wasn’t a daily-report person, but if there was a chance Coppelia might know something, it would be stupid not to ask.
    Right. That was all she could reasonably find out for the moment. Tension was prickling at the back of her neck. She had the horrible feeling she’d forgotten something, or failed to notice something important. She needed to talk to Vale as soon as possible. Librarians did face death threats from time to time and, while it came with the job, it was hardly on her list of One Hundred Favourite Experiences. However, she didn’t know the magnitude of the current threat. And a simple book purchase and an attempted assault seemed to be throwing up all manner of new connections. There was no way of knowing how badly it could go wrong.
    She shut down her computer and headed back to her exit - it had already taken her twenty-five minutes. She’d come back later today, or tomorrow, and check for a response from Coppelia.
    With a twinge of the brand across her back, Irene stepped out of the Library and back into real time and space. (Or, according to some arguments, unreal time and space, if the Library was the only ‘reality’. But that was something for philosophical disputations.) The door closed firmly behind her and, as she glanced to check, the last remnants of her painted letters faded into the paintwork. Nothing was left behind, not even the faintest trace of ink or shadow on the wood.
    She had successfully made it there and back, with nobody any the wiser. And she couldn’t help feeling just a little bit of glee that she had once again - now what was the best phrase for this? - got away with it.
Here’s to being a secret agent of an interdimensional Library!
    The glow of self-satisfaction lasted until her cab turned onto Baker Street. As it drew level with Vale’s lodgings, she could see that no lights shone in the upstairs windows, which suggested that he was out. Even though it was only late morning, the fog meant that street lights and houses were lit against the gloom. She paid off the cab-driver and hurried to the door.
    The housekeeper answered it. She was a middle-aged woman of unflappable disposition, her greying hair pinned up in a rock-hard bun. ‘Can I help you, ma’am - oh, it’s you, Miss Winters. Mr Vale said: would you mind waiting, if you arrived while he was out.’
    Irene’s stomach sank. Something had gone wrong. She didn’t know what yet, but she just had that feeling. ‘Do you know where he