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One record came up, twenty years old. Irene resisted the urge to do a fist-pump in the air, and clicked on it.
Moderate-power Fae. Masculine, usually claims to be a member of the aristocracy and titles himself Lord. Capable of travel between worlds. His archetypal aspects include: power, manipulation, control, leadership. The reader will have observed that his name is the Spanish word for ‘gloves’ and may find this indicative of a tendency to subtlety and manipulation.
Irene glanced at the name of this entry’s author. Rhadamanthys. His status was marked as deceased. Damn, no way to ask him questions now.
Originally encountered on G-112. [A Gamma-type world, which meant it had both magic and technology.] The world was neutral at the time, with both forces of chaos and order present. Guantes was fomenting an aristocratic rebellion against the Holy Roman Emperor. The latter was supported by another powerful Fae called Argent. During the power struggle between the two, the Empire fell and a Byzantine theocracy backed by a dragon princess came 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 is?’ she asked, stepping inside and closing the door behind her.
‘He went out early, on a summons from Scotland Yard, Miss Winters,’ the housekeeper said, taking Irene’s hat and helping her off with her coat. ‘Then your friend Mr Strongrock came by, just an hour ago—’
So Kai must have come straight here from their discussion with Silver, Irene calculated.
‘- and someone met him at the door. I did catch a few words, and it was a message from Mr Vale to meet him in the East End. And off he went. And then, when Mr Vale was back, I told him all this, and he’s off to the East End himself, quick as you like. He told me most particularly that if you were to turn up, Miss Winters, I should ask you to wait for him to come back. Or, and he said it very severely, he couldn’t answer for the consequences.’
Irene had been nodding along as the woman rattled on, but her throat had gone dry. Kai lured away. Vale gone after him. She wanted to be out of here, right this minute, and hailing a cab to take her to the East End too.
Except, common sense pointed out, the East End was a big place. And Vale had specifically asked her to wait for him. Her hands tightened into fists, but she composed her face to calmness. ‘Of course I’ll wait for Mr Vale to return. Did he say where in the East End he was going?’
The housekeeper shook her head. ‘You know how he is, miss. Can I get you a cup of tea while you’re waiting?’
The door slammed open. ‘That will not be necessary,’ Vale said from behind her.
Irene turned to see Vale standing there, looking down at her from his superior six feet of height. His clothing was, as always, austere, but appropriate for a gentleman, and of the most expensive fabrics. (It was no wonder he’d bonded so well with Kai. They both refused to wear anything but the best.) His dark hair was swept back from his face, and his profile seemed even more hawklike than usual. ‘Where have you been, Miss Winters?’ he demanded.
‘To a library, sir,’ Irene said. She didn’t quite let her tone slip into sharpness, but it was a near thing. ‘I sent Kai to you. Where is he now?’
‘Abducted, Miss Winters - while you were out at your library.’ Vale managed to put an astonishing amount of accusation and simple anger into the words. ‘And I would like to know what you propose to do about it.’
The worm of guilt in her gut - I leave him alone for five minutes and he gets himself kidnapped - collided with a sudden burn of anger at Vale’s words. ‘Why, get him back, of course! How dare you—’
The housekeeper coughed loudly, and both Irene and Vale turned to look at her. ‘I’ll bring your tea upstairs, Mr Vale,’ she said firmly. ‘And some for the lady too. I can see that you’ve got matters to discuss.’
‘Oh, very well,’ Vale said, with no grace whatsoever, and stamped up the stairs to his rooms, with Irene a pace behind him.
I was wrong, ran through her head. It wasn’t a threat to us. It wasn’t a threat to me. It was a threat to Kai, and I left him alone, and they caught him.
