As the city emerged from the mist beneath the bow of the Aquila Celeris, a shiver ran across Eva’s skin. Nimbusheim. Her home.
The capital of the Cloud Islands sprawled before her like a patchwork quilt covering nearly the entire surface of the floating island. In the pale light of late autumn, the rooftops resembled colorful fallen leaves: bricks in rusty red, light and dark slate, interspersed with brightly gleaming copper domes, threaded through by a web of narrow alleys. Everywhere houses pressed together, crooked and labyrinthine, as if over the years they had shoved each other to the edges until no space remained. Stairs and bridges sliced the city into levels. Stone steps climbed house walls, vanished under arcades, and reemerged elsewhere. Tall towers shot up from the jumble of roofs, some slender and needle-sharp, others squat with encircling galleries and crooked parapets. Between them arched bridges and walkways, as if Nimbusheim were trying to hold itself together lest it unravel into the sky.
In the lower quarters, walkways and wooden galleries lay like a second network over the streets. Courtyards, passages, and twisting back stairs blurred from above into a single pattern of shadows and lines. Pale smoke rose from chimneys, mingling with the fog creeping up from the island’s edge, settling like a thin film over roofs and towers. At the outermost edge, the city frayed out until it ended abruptly at the dark fringe of a forest. Beyond it, barely visible in the backlighting, the Triplets hovered in the haze.
The pulsing life of Nimbusheim was surpassed only by the bustling activity above it. Lumbering zeppelins drifted past elevated platforms, merchant ships swung in wide arcs on their routes to ease into the harbor, and between them darted speeders and other small aircraft that flashed briefly in the light before vanishing amid roofs and towers.
Eva could not say with certainty how long it had been since she had last seen her home city. She stood rooted to the railing, letting her gaze wander over the floating island she had known all her life. As cramped and confining as Nimbusheim had sometimes felt, with its expectations, familiar paths, and faces, it now felt like a part of her. The wind brushed coolly across her face. For a moment, she toyed with the idea of simply vanishing after landing, hiding in her foster father’s workshop, and forgetting it all—Goldendale, the Rye Wolf, the pirates, and the guild. None of it would matter anymore once she sat in the familiar kitchen with the old man over tea. But no, she had decided against that path long ago. She bore responsibility, had sworn an oath, and had a legacy to fulfill. So she took a deep breath and prepared for landing.
A snort announced her navigation master. „So, would you kindly enlighten me as to our plan—perhaps before we touch down?“ Corwin asked after stepping up beside her at the railing. Eva gazed thoughtfully over the ever-nearing city, then met his eyes gravely. „I don’t know,“ she replied. „When we left Eldbridge, I was certain I wanted to bring charges against the merchants‘ guild. But so many things don’t fit: What interest do the pirates have in all this? Why are they after the guild? And why are they destroying the island further?“ „The wind current over Goldendale is being manipulated—there’s no doubt about that,“ Corwin interjected. „And we found the apparatus in a warehouse sealed by the League of Free Cities.“ Eva nodded vigorously. „Yes, all true. But I’ve been thinking the whole time that bringing charges is exactly what the pirates want. I don’t want to become their tool.“ Corwin pondered, then said, „Why not give the guild a chance to respond first?“
Swiftly, the Aquila Celeris descended into landing approach. Ropes tensed, turbines throttled their howl, and with a gentle lurch, they moored at one of the outer quays in the Great Harbor of Nimbusheim. Barely had the lines been secured when a harbor guard came trotting up, his characteristic peaked cap pulled low over his face. In his hand he held a slim metal tube, sealed at its end with a gleaming red wax sigil. „A message for the Grand Master!“ he called out against the tumult of the harbor. Eva raised her hand. The man blinked from beneath his cap’s brim, started to take another look—and his face cracked into a broad grin. „By Zephyros‘ fluttering knickers!“ he cried, barely suppressing tears of laughter, „Eva No-Stocking! You’re the Grand Master?“ „Yes,“ Eva hissed, with deliberate dignity—as much dignity as one could muster with wind-tousled hair while being laughed at. „Now hand over the message.“ The guard chuckled, thrust the tube into her hands, and staggered away still laughing, calling back repeatedly: „Mad world! Grand Master No-Stocking, who would have thought it! Mad world!“
Corwin grinned so broadly it looked like it might hurt, and Eva did her best to ignore him. But as her gaze fell upon the sigil, all humor drained away. Their faces grew serious, almost pale. Finn came panting down the ramp. „Who’s it from?“ „The Guild,“ Eva answered toneless. „They know we’re here. And they’re summoning us.“
Nimbusheim’s Trade Ring encircled the harbor tightly, like a belt buckled on the last hole. Where incoming airships were unloaded, buildings stood shoulder to shoulder, as if afraid someone might squeeze in between. Old counting houses with narrow gables and high lofts flanked low bank buildings whose facades were deliberately plain—here power was shown not through ostentation but endurance. This was attested by the founding years that anyone able to claim one proudly bore in their name: „Jensen Office, est. 1145“ or „Kopmann & Sons, since 1304.“ Between them lay exchange houses, small insurance firms, and the omnipresent teahouses. The headquarters of the League of Free Cities rose at the edge of the Trade Ring like a bastion of order and self-assurance. Two massive towers flanked the great gate, their dark red brick facades strictly segmented, interrupted only by narrow windows and inset coat-of-arms panels. Above the arch loomed the three crossed keys, so large they were visible from a great distance.
The guards let them pass without delay. Showing the message sufficed; seals were checked, then one of the clerks hurried off, his footsteps echoing long on the smooth stone floor. Suddenly, a second door opened right beside them—heavy, iron-bound—and revealed the council chamber. Before them lay a round, high-ceilinged room, fully wood-paneled, the dark material gleaming in the light of narrow windows. A round table dominated the center, surrounded by heavy council chairs with almost comically tall backs. Carved, painted coats of arms indicated the origin of whoever sat there. Not all seats were filled, but a glance at those present was enough for Eva to identify them as High Lords of the Free Cities—recognizable by the ornate chains of office around their necks. The gold-stamped insignia gleamed dully.
Directly in front of her sat the chairman. Unlike the black-robed councilors, he wore a dark red woolen robe. He was older, his hair silver-gray and neatly combed back, hands neatly folded as if positioned just for this moment. The clerk who had led Eva and her companions in quietly, almost reverently, announced the name Eva knew well: Hinnerk Volkward, Speaker of the League of Free Cities.
„Grand Master,“ Volkward said, rising and spreading his arms. „Please forgive us for troubling you right upon arrival. Thus, for the sake of form, let the welcome be extended: Welcome home.“ His mouth smiled—a gesture of courtesy that, as Eva noted, his eyes did not share. „We have much to discuss. Please, sit.“ Eva remained standing. „I’m not here for long talks. You’ve preempted us with your invitation, but in truth, we’re in Nimbusheim to speak with you.“ A barely perceptible twitch passed through some faces. Volkward, however, smiled thinly. „As you wish. Then we waste no time—my preferred method. Bring your questions forward; this council is at your disposal.“
But before Eva could begin, the door flew open.
A messenger burst in, coat flapping open, breath coming in gasps. He bowed hastily, nearly clipping the table edge, and struggled for air. „Forgive me,“ he gasped, „but it’s urgent.“ Volkward frowned. „Who let him in?“ he called toward the door the man had left ajar. „By what authority does he interrupt the council?“ „My deepest apologies,“ the man wheezed. „It concerns the Central Council of the Cloud Islands. A witness is speaking there—right now. A member of the Order. Airis of Windhold. It’s about Goldendale.“