The journal was in his pocket. Foster spent his evenings hunched over it at the kitchen table, long after Ortego had gone to bed, deciphering the precise, paranoid script. It spoke of "resonance points" and "attenuation protocols," language that felt more like physics or engineering than the occult. The writer, whose identity remained hidden, was clearly a pragmatist, viewing the city's hidden layers as a system to be managed, or exploited.
There were no more sudden, violent memories from Andrew's life, and the warm, painful flashes of Foster's past also receded, leaving him in a strange, stable present. The silence in his own head was a relief, allowing him to focus.
The journal confirmed the existence of the High Ancient Mandate, but only in vague, reverent terms.
The Mandate directs... H. has the ear of the Mandate... The Mandate's patience wears thin.
It was a name, a power center, but its nature and members were kept deliberately obscure. The writer seemed to be a subordinate, an operative.
To learn more, Foster began listening, truly listening, at the station. He lingered by the coffee urn when the older detectives were talking. He asked Ben Frank casual questions about the city's powerful families during autopsies.
The name "High Ancient Mandate" never came up. But other things did.
"…old man Withersby, from the Historical Society," a detective named Crowe was saying, "he was going on about that club of his. The one that meets in the Aethelstan. Bunch of stuffed shirts who think they founded the city."
"Which one?" his partner asked, bored.
"The… oh, what do they call it? The Venerable Order? The Old Mandate? Something self-important. He said they have their own dining room, their own rules. Preferential treatment, like they own the place."
Foster kept his eyes on his coffee cup, his heart thumping. The Old Mandate. It was close enough. The rumors were there, diluted and distorted, but real.
Another time, Eliza was complaining about trying to get a permit for a community event. "The bureaucracy is impossible! It's like you need a secret handshake or to be part of some… I dunno, some inner circle. My friend at city hall says the real decisions don't get made in the council chambers, they get made over brandy in some club at the Aethelstan."
Foster filed it all away. The Aethelstan was the nexus. The H.A.M. was the power within it. And he was on the outside, looking in.
His savings were growing, but too slowly. The repair work was lucrative but irregular. He needed a consistent inflow. He remembered Eliza's offhand comment about her organizational skills. On a day when the station was quiet, he approached her.
"Eliza, you said you had a system for the archives."
She looked up from her computer, instantly alert. "The best system. What do you need?"
"Not me, specifically. The department. The cold case storage is a disaster. Files are misfiled, evidence logs don't match up. It's costing us man-hours."
This was true, he'd experienced it firsthand.
"If you could design a new filing system—one that bridges the physical archives and the digital database—it would be a huge help. I could mention it to Lieutenant Holmes."
Eliza's eyes lit up with ambition. "You think she'd go for it? I've had a proposal drafted for months! It would link case numbers to evidence locker locations, cross-reference witness aliases…" She launched into a detailed explanation that lost Foster after the first minute, but he nodded along.
"Put together a formal proposal," he said. "I'll make sure it gets to the right people."
A week later, Martha Holmes called Foster into her office. "Ramirez's system," she began, holding up a data-slate. "It's efficient. Well thought-out. She says you encouraged her."
Foster shrugged. "She had the idea. I just cleared the path."
Martha gave him that long, evaluating look. "Clearing paths is a useful skill. The Captain has approved a temporary permit for her to implement the first phase. It seems you're full of surprises lately, Ambrose."
The "surprise" resulted in a discreet bonus added to Foster's next paycheck, officially for "cross-departmental liaison work." It wasn't a fortune, but it was steady. Combined with his repair work, the geography book was finally getting fat.
He allowed himself one small celebration.
—
He walked back to the Aethelstan Club, not as a wistful observer, but as a future applicant. He studied the flow of people, the subtle hierarchy in how they were greeted by the doorman.
He saw a man with a neat moustache and gold-rimmed glasses emerge, his suit impeccably tailored, his aura was one of calm, unassailable authority. The man stood on the steps, surveying the street as if it were his personal fiefdom, before being driven away in a silent, electric carriage.
Foster didn't know who he was, but he recognized his type. This was the level of people he would need to navigate. This was the world of the H.A.M.
He turned and walked home, his mind already drafting the letter of inquiry he would send to the club. The journal had given him a target. The rumors had given him context. Now, his own grim determination would give him the key.
He was done looking in from the outside. It was time to step through the marble pillars.