A dead man sat in front of him.
Keeled over in the wooden seat, head lolled to the side; the red mark near the temple indicated trauma of some sort, likely from a blunt object.
Darvish blinked twice.
The lantern on the table was dim, the glass cover stained with dirt and grime. Light came out of it unwillingly, and he could barely make out the shape of the room around him.
The room. Darvish. Dead man.
Those were the only three things he knew at the moment. What was he doing here? He rose up from his seat and groaned. A sharp pain radiated from his back and left ribs. His neck felt stiff, and he tasted something metallic in the back of his throat. Every muscle in his body was sore.
The light from the lantern flickered. He looked around and saw the papers scattered across the wooden surface before him. A dagger in its sheathe. An amulet. Several golden coins. A scroll of paper sat in the middle, badly torn. He reached for it, piecing the frayed edges together,
“Be at the point closest to the Sun at dawn.”
He frowned. What did that mean? Nothing made sense. He looked around the rest of the room and nearly stumbled, his legs feeling like jelly. He held an arm to the back of his chair to steady himself, and peered back at the dead man again.
Definitely a blunt object, he thought. The skull was caved in where the man was struck, and redness dribbled slowly down the left cheek in the darkness.
“What did you do to deserve this?” Darvish asked, as though expecting an answer.
He stumbled over to the door, taking the lantern with him. The shelves around the room were bare; the spaces within free of dust, as though whatever had been there had been moved just recently. He touched the handle—tested it, found it stiff but unlocked.
He looked back to the table, and decided that the coins and amulet would be of use, and the dagger as well, and the message, if he ever managed to work out its meaning.
He pulled open the door and left the room.