He knew what puberty was, because they had all been forced to take a special class about it this year. It had been hard to hear the teacher over the laughter of twelve-year-old boys and girls, but Shomair had understood enough to know what puberty was, and to know he hadn’t contracted it, yet. Master Bryant had made it seem like puberty was something everyone got, sooner or later, no matter what they did.

Shomair still looked the same as he always had; he hadn’t grown much, wasn’t putting on any noticeable amount of muscle, didn’t need to shave (although he checked his jaw every morning); what hair there was to be found on his skinny body was still pale and fine, bearing no resemblance to the dark mess on top of his head, his voice was still high, and he hadn’t needed any new clothes made for over two years.

At the moment, puberty seemed to be of great interest to everyone else his age in Scorpion House. Shomair found it best to ignore them, whether they were talking about puberty or anything else.

Currently, he was avoiding them and therefore ignoring them by sitting on the top of the wall.

It was an impressive wall, made out of big, crumbling stones and masonry. The only way to see over it was to climb all the way to the top of the clock tower. The wall was too big to try climbing over, but when he was seven, Shomair had found, behind Adder House, a tree growing next to the wall. It seemed to be made up of five different trees, all growing out of the same stump. The five trees had grown in such a way that they were quite easy to climb, provided you were properly wary of the gap between tree three and tree four, that was big enough for a hawk to fly through without clipping its wings.

Once you had gotten as far and as high as you could climb, it was easy to swing out onto the top of the wall.

For Shomair, the wall was a good place to sit quietly, and think.

Shomair thought about a lot of different things.

Sometimes he thought about his parents. He didn’t like his parents.

At one point, Shomair had thought he might hate his parents. But then he had looked ‘hate’ you in a dictionary and decided that, while he certainly disliked them and hoped they were dead, he did not dislike them with any particular passion. He also thought it was somehow unjust to hate someone you didn’t really know anything about.

All Shomair knew about his parents was that they had given him a name. That was unusual, and he had discovered this fact quite recently.

Orphans were always, he learned early on in life, given names that reflected their future profession.

Looking through Guild records at an early age, Shomair had found out that the last person to carry the name ‘Maweth’ had died ten years before he was born. That had been Isidore (one of the Guild founders) Maweth (a word from an ancient language, meaning ‘death’).

There were no Shomairs in the records.

Shomair did not come across his name in anything that did not pertain directly to him until he was eleven. It was in an ancient language class and he had been flipping restlessly through the text book when his eyes lit on his own name.

It meant ‘watchman’ or ‘guard’.

A short exploration of the library during his lunch period revealed that in many ancient religions, there would be a god, or an angel, or a demon, whose sole duty it was to guard the gates of the dead.

It was months before Shomair found out guards were also protectors and defenders of the people.

He had wondered: Which people?

Sometimes Shomair thought about his schoolwork, but not very often. In his opinion, studies just existed, as naturally as the sun, the moon, or the sky, and he saw no reason to wonder about them or waste effort in contemplation of whether or not they would continue to do their jobs. They just were, and schoolwork just was.

Shomair sometimes heard the masters say he was gifted. He looked the word up in the dictionary and was unimpressed by what he found. It was a vague, unsatisfying word, and Shomair frequently heard the masters describe some of the other children as gifted as well.

Shomair rarely thought about the other children. He spent time on the wall so he wouldn’t have to think about them.

There was the city on the other side of the wall; Shomair thought about that a lot.

They were taught about it in some of their lessons, so he knew that the city had a name – Ciddryn – and that it was part of a country, which also had a name – Liber – which was part of the greatest world in any universe, according to the masters.

The Guild, he had been taught, was one of the most important organizations in the city. Shomair could never decide whether this was a good thing or a bad thing, but it caused him to think about the city a lot.

He thought about the people and cars he would see going past when he sat on the wall, and about the other buildings he could see. He mostly looked at the one across the road, which had tall metal gates that the children on the other side could look through, and looked like a less impressive version of the Guild.

He wondered about the children eh sometimes saw looking through the gate, who looked back at him.

He wondered if the children across the road wondered about the scruffy little boy all in black, sitting on top of the wall like a crow, and if they suffered from puberty too.

Shomair thought about all the parts of the city he couldn’t see, and wondered why the Guild was so important. He quietly looked forward to the coming year, when he would be thirteen, and old enough to go into the city. In the city, he reasoned, there would be people all over who wouldn’t know his name.

Sometimes Shomair thought that if the Guild controlled the city, then the city was like the Guild, only bigger. This would depress him and he would usually not think about the city for several days after thoughts like these crossed his young mind.

Today, he thought about the person throwing the rock at him. As he reached out and caught the small projectile, dropping it on the other side of the wall before he turned around.

Two boys stood on the ground, next to the trees. The one who had thrown the rock was Ambrose Fast, a dark-haired boy who, despite his height, had not yet contracted puberty. Next to him, leaning against the tree, was Scorpion House’s newest prefect, Jeremy Fry.

Staring quietly down at his year-and-house-mates, Shomair thought about Fast, briefly. Fast wasn’t worth very many thoughts. He was big and he was strong, and the girls in Scorpion House thought he was good-looking. He did poorly in any class that involved books and was usually above average in most classes that didn’t.

Shomair had seen someone described as a bully in a book when he was five, and had needed to look the word up, which was how he knew Ambrose Fast was nothing but a pretty bully, the latest in a long line of pretty bullies from the Fast family, who had been in the Guild since its founding.

Fast, Shomair had decided when he first lay eyes on the big boy, would not be a very good Assassin.

“Maweth!” Fast bellowed, his hands cupped around his mouth. “What are you doing up there?!”

Shomair looked at Fry, who was looking at him instead of Fast.

Jeremy Fry had been away from the Guild for a month. That was the reward you were given when you became a prefect – a month’s long holiday away from the Guild. As far as Shomair knew, Fry had spent his well-earned reward in the country, with his mother, and whatever other family he might have lying around, where he would have been well fed, been able to sleep in late, and not have to worry about homework.

You became a prefect by taking first blood among all the other children your age in your House.

A month ago, Fry had inhumed Alanis Lightfellow of Falcon House, much to everyone’s surprise. Most prefects were declared at the age of fourteen. Jeremy Fry, at the age of twelve, was young for a prefect (although Shomair knew that the youngest prefect in Guild history was Ayu Tsujiai, who inhumed the girl sleeping next to her at the age of ten).

Fry was, like Fast, popular among the Scorpion House girls, all of whom seemed to have contracted puberty earlier than any of their male house-mates. He was shorter than Fast, but taller than Shomair, and had very blue eyes. His hair was blond, perpetually rumpled in a way that made it look like he’d just gotten out of bed, or a fight, and was held back in a ponytail by a black velvet ribbon.

He’d gotten his ear pierced while he was away from the Guild, and a diamond, shaped like a teardrop, hung from one ear.

Shomair thought that Fry had contracted puberty while outside the Guild – a month ago the top of Fry’s head could have just barely brushed Fast’s shoulder. Now, Fast needed to tilt his head up to see over the top of Fry’s head, and Fry would certainly be looming above Fast within a few more months.

Fry was smart and sharp (the masters said he was gifted, too), and, at the moment, he was looking expectantly at Shomair, waiting for him to answer Fast’s question.

Shomair thought carefully about his answer.

“Sitting,” he finally said.

Fast started to fume. “Maweth, you little basket bastard, get your scrawny ass down here right now.”

Fry laughed.

Fast hesitated. “Jeremy?”

“It’s a good answer,” Fry said, the full force of his brilliant smile directed at Shomair. Then he focussed on Fast, momentarily, and sighed. “Such crudity, Ambrose, and you a gentleman. I’m sure our friend knows better than that. Don’t you, Shomair?”

Shomair nodded. You didn’t make a prefect angry, even if he had been sleeping in the bed next to you fro years, and got worse marks than you.

Fry smiled. “What did I tell you, Ambrose? Now, why don’t you go and unpack my bags for me, and I’ll be along after I have a talk with Shomair here.”

Fast glared suspiciously up at Shomair before nodding and lumbering away.

Shomair was fairly certain Fast had failed the last test in stealthy movement and concealment.

“Well, Shomair, are you going to come down, or should I try and come up?”

Shomair shrugged and jumped off the wall, landing in a roll that stopped at Fry’s feet.

He stood up.

“Impressive, Shomair,” Fry said, still smiling. “I expected no less from you, of course.”

Shomair didn’t say anything. The top of his head was level with Fry’s shoulder. He stared at Fry’s chest as an acceptable alternative to staring into teasing blue eyes.

“Do you know why I want to talk to you, Shomair?”

“No.”

“The teachers were all certain you’d take first blood.”

“No one told me. I’m sorry to disappoint them.”

“I thought you were going to.”

Shomair said nothing. Nothing needed to be said.

“I believe it’s traditional to kill any possible competitors for first blood once you’ve been made prefect.”

“You aren’t going to do that.”

Fry smiled, ducking his head down so his forehead was pressed against Shomair’s. “Why not?”

“Because if you thought, really thought, I was going to be Scorpion House prefect for our year, you’d know that I’d kill you if you tried anything.”

“You’re very good, for a basket case,” Fry said, his smile widening. “Very good. Best in the Guild, I bet. You didn’t make prefect, but you could probably be Guild chief within twenty minutes of our graduation.”

Shomair didn’t respond to the suggestion. The masters did not look kindly upon boys who were overly ambitious. “You think I’m too valuable to kill,” he said, hitting at Fry’s underlying theme.

“That’s right. You’re a natural, Shomair.” Fry laughed, softly, his breath tickling Shomair’s face.

“Thank you,” Shomair said.

“Do you think,” Fry whispered, “that’s the only reason I’m not going to try killing you, Shomair Maweth?”

“Couldn’t say,” Shomair answered in his best ‘stupid bastard’ voice.

Fry grinned and spun, slamming his hands into Shomair’s shoulders and pinning him to one of the trees.

“I could have killed you there, basket case. You didn’t do a thing.”

“I would have if you were going to do something and not just mess about.”

“So you say. It’s easy to talk big when you’re still breathing.” Fry smirked down at Shomair, flexing his fingers around to grip the smaller boy’s shoulders tightly.

“Yes,” Shomair agreed, knocking the knife out of Fry’s belt before he even began to reach for it.

“You’re good, Shomair. That’s why I like you.” Fry sighed happily. “I look forward to the day you take blood – then I’ll really get to see what you’re made of.”

“Flesh, bone, and blood, Fry. Don’t you pay attention during anatomy.”

“Shomair,” Fry laughed and, pressing his body against Shomair’s, bent his head down to cover the smaller boy’s lips with his own.

Jeremy Fry tasted like spiced bread, honey, and liquorice, his mouth hot on Shomair’s. He pressed himself more firmly against Shomair, rubbing himself against the smaller boy, causing Shomair’s blood to flow in all the wrong directions, making him abruptly, painfully hard.

Fry bit down on Shomair’s lower lip, tearing it, and Shomair’s blood dripped down their chins and onto the front of their uniforms.

Fry let go of Shomair’s shoulders and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, smearing the blood. His eyes gleamed feverishly as he looked down at Shomair, who tried to stop the flow of blood from his lip with a sleeve. He glared in dumb confusion at Fry, his mouth stuffed with cloth.

“Take blood, Shomair, and I swear, we two will own Ciddryn,” Fry said, voice rough, and grinned like a demon.

Shomair rested back against the trees, his mouth hot and aching, and watched the prefect leave. When he was out of sight, Shomair thought about blood, and Jeremy Fry.