Outside, the rain had dwindled.

The Secretary walked away from his custodians, taking the opposite direction.

“Sir,” one of the Grenadiers called him. As the soldier spoke with the mask on, his voice was heard with a metallic echo. “The limousine is parked around this corner.”

“I know,” Mizar replied, “but I feel like walking. The condo is across the avenue. It’s not far.”

He loved to stretch his legs at night and in the rain; it was relaxing and beautiful; and although he would have liked to do it without the raincoat and feel the water on his body, now that days of hard work awaited him, he shouldn’t neglect his health. Falling for a cold would be a setback.

The Grenadiers agreed to abide by the new Secretary’s proposal—order, they might say, depending on how they interpreted it—and followed him. Arriving at the corner, under the streetlight, Mizar waited for the pedestrian light to turn green; when the few vehicles passing by stopped, he advanced.

The wind stirred the drops that were dancing in the air, and licked the pavement, sweeping away the thin layer of water that had not yet drained down the sewers. It was night, and the crowd that normally passed by there had disappeared. In the sky, the pink clouds had starched into a purple cushion that promised to continue the bad weather. In the distance, behind the elegant buildings of the area—with ancient and well-preserved constructions that did not reach more than ten stories—the massive titanium towers of the Imperial Citadel could be seen, stretching out into the sky, dissolved between the curtains of night and water.

Clump, clump, clump, his footsteps sounded. Clink, clink, clink, the Grenadier’s sounded.

Half a block from his building, he saw the dark silhouette of someone in a trench coat, standing next to the entrance through which he was to enter. Was it one of his neighbors? Most of those who lived there were elderly former secretaries who wouldn’t venture out in the open in that weather, but there were always exceptions.

He sharpened his gaze, trying to recognize the man—if it was a man and not a woman, that was—but he couldn’t distinguish him well. The figure remained in the shadows, out of reach of the building’s lights. The stranger’s face was a dark, blurry spot; a few steps later, he knew the reason: the stranger had his head covered with a hood. An adrenaline shot put him on alert.

His new position in the Markabian Imperial Army had attracted the attention of many, and it was no wonder that detractors used assassins to dispatch their enemies. Could it be that—?

No, no. His bodyguards would do a fine job in case there were problems; he trusted them, so he didn’t stop.

The stranger remained in the same place, away from the light, a few feet from the staircase that led to the main access to the tower. Judging by the silhouette that the trench coat gave away, he was a tall man with a good physical build. Or a brawny woman.

As he passed the stranger, the Secretary avoided looking at him no matter how much he wanted to see the face under the hood. He pursed his lips, made his hands into fists, turned his back on him, and went up the stairs.

For an instant, he held his breath. Relax. Nothing will happen, he said to himself.

He found it odd that the Grenadiers did nothing to keep the stranger away; snoopers going around was frowned upon in the vicinity. But since the building guard was waiting for him up there after the stairs and with the front door already open, he downplayed the matter. Hadn’t he promised himself to relax and enjoy the moment?

According to his way of seeing things, the politicians and traders he knew—Alfonso’s clients, for the most part—were fools because they lived in fear, attentive to their safety. He wasn’t like them, and that’s why he allowed himself to go for a walk at night, in the rain. Of course, the Grenadiers were there to protect him, but that had nothing to do with that—his stance of not being intimidated and continuing his life normally had been there long before he had the Empire’s protection.

Mizar took off his raincoat and left it in the building’s cloakroom. He crossed the luxurious hall and went to the elevators. The automatic door opened. A Grenadier got into it first, he went into after him, and the other Grenadier behind him. The space in the mirrored cubicle was not large, but the three of them fit comfortably.

The Secretary was about to press the button to the tenth floor, but one of the Grenadiers stepped forward and pressed it for him. Was that a security measure he had to get used to from now on? Or was the gesture simple gallantry on the part of his custodian? He had always been an independent guy and liked to do things for himself, but that kind of attention might come to please him enough to make him lazy.

Who says there are no more gentlemen in the service?

Mizar couldn’t see the Grenadier’s face as it was covered with the helmet; he noticed that there were beautiful eyes behind the dark-glass visor, though. What kind of face was hiding under that gleaming pointy helmet? A handsome one, perhaps.

Someday he’d invite the guards to put the duty aside for a moment and share a drink with him. To hell with protocol! Those silly rules were still in force only for the geezers of the Imperial Council.

“Is something wrong, sir?” the Grenadier asked, noticing his gaze.

“Nothing,” he replied.

The Secretary stood in front of the elevator mirror and smoothed his hair; there, where the gray hairs were. He thought about the drink with the soldiers. Yes, maybe sometime later. For the moment, he just wanted to take a warm bath and wait for the young waiter. Jake finished his shift at Alfonso after nine o’clock at night, so there was enough time to…

His custodians! They were gone!

In the blink of an eye, the soldiers had disappeared. In the reflection, next to him, there was a single figure: The stranger with the trench coat and the hood. He jumped and spun on his heels.

“Sir?” The Grenadier’s metallic voice snapped him out of his reverie.

No. His guards were right there. He watched them with wide eyes and lips so tight they had lost their natural pinkish tone. Slowly, he waited for the breath to return to his lungs. Everything had already returned to normal.

What had been that hallucination? He shook his head.

C’mon. You’re not afraid of anything, he said to himself. You were never afraid. Fools are the other ones, not you.

After opening the condominium’s door, which by function belonged to the Secretary of Defense, one of the soldiers carried out a survey of the entire floor with the sensors of his helmet, scanning every last object in each room and recreating it holographically on the visor’s inner screen, analyzing even the temperature patterns of everything there.

The soldier stepped aside and let Mizar pass.

“It’s fine,” the Secretary said. “Now, guys, you can leave me—”

He turned to his escorts, ready to announce that he was going to take a hot shower—and hint that he would like to be escorted to the bathtub on another occasion—but not a word came out of his mouth. His eyes widened again.

Once again, the Grenadiers were gone.