The tower overlooks the Imperial Palace and affords a spectacular view of the hollow mountain to the east. Nagasena does not look at the hollow mountain. It is an ugly thing, a necessary thing, but he never paints it, even when he paints the landscapes of the east.

Nagasena dips his brush into a pot of blue dye and applies it lightly within the boundary lines he has previously applied to prevent the colour bleeding into the material. Painting in the freehand mo-shuistyle, he lays depths of sky to the fabric and nods to himself as he watches the colour flow.

He is tired. He has been painting since dawn, but he wants to finish this picture today. He feels he might never finish it if he does not do so today. His bones ache from standing so long. Nagasena knows he has seen too many winters to indulge in such foolishness, but he still climbs the seventy-two steps to the tower’s uppermost chamber every day.

‘Well, are you coming in or not?’ asks Nagasena without turning. ‘You are distracting me just standing there.’

‘Apologies, master,’ says Kartono, moving from the doorway to stand at his master’s right shoulder. ‘And to think some of the servants believe your hearing is going.’

Nagasena snorts in amusement. ‘It keeps them on their toes, and you would be amazed what insights you pick up when people think you cannot hear them.’

They stand in silence for some moments, Kartono intuitively recognising it will be for Nagasena to decide when to speak. Kartono keeps his eyes averted from the painting, knowing that Nagasena detests people looking at incomplete works. One should only look upon art when it is complete is one of his favourite sayings.

Instead, Kartono stares over Nagasena’s shoulder through the wide openings in the walls. Nagasena designed the chamber at the top of the tower specifically for painting, and the width of the world is laid before him.

Shutters on each wall keep the wind out, and even when Nagasena does not paint, he often climbs the many steps to enjoy the views over the landscape when he needs a place of serenity. At present, the northern and easternmost shutters are thrown open and the Imperial palace is spread out in all its glory.

Gilded roofs, jagged spires and mighty towers jostle for space, and the vast city-palace heaves with motion like a living thing. Supplicants, servants, soldiers and scribes fill its vast districts with life and noise. Smoke rises from the cook fires of the Petitioner’s City, but the air is clearer than Nagasena remembers it. He tastes the fragrances brought to the palace on the wind like travellers from far off lands.

‘What do you see?’ asks Nagasena, pointing to the window.

‘I see the palace,’ replies Kartono. ‘And it is a fine sight. Robust and healthy, full of life.’

‘And beyond the city?’

‘More mountains and a world rebuilt. The sky is clear, like a spring stream, and there are clouds like the breath of giants around the peaks of Dhaulagiri.’

‘Describe the mountain,’ commands Nagasena.

‘Why?’

‘Just do it, please.’

Kartono shrugs and turns his gaze upon the mountain, its tall, rugged flanks shining like silver in the sunlight. ‘It gleams like a polished shield rising from the landscape, and I think I can see the high peaks of the Gangkhar Puensum behind it.’

‘You can see Gangkhar Puensum?’

‘Yes, I think so. Why?’

‘It is a bad omen, my friend. The migoulegends say that when Pangu, the ancestor of their race died, his head turned into Gangkhar Puensum and that it is the emperor of all mountains. The ancient migoukings would climb its slopes to petition the gods and seek the blessings of heaven. So far none have ever reached its summit, and the migousay this is why they remain bonded as virtual slaves.’

‘ Migoukings? The migouhave no kings or ancestors,’ points out Kartono. ‘They are a gene-forged race of labourer creatures. They have no past to have had any kings.’

‘That is as maybe,’ answers Nagasena. ‘You know that and I know that, but do the migou, I wonder? Have they invented a fictitious history and mythical past to justify their place in the world? Does it make it easier to bear a life of servitude if you believe it is the will of the gods?’

‘Is seeing the mountain a bad omen?’ asks Kartono.

‘So the migousay.’

‘And since when do you consult omens?’ asks Kartono. ‘Such things are for the simple minded and the migou.’

‘Perhaps,’ says Nagasena, ‘but I have painted the landscape to seek guidance.’

‘Painted the landscape? Is that some new form of prognostication introduced by the remembrancers?’ laughs Kartono. ‘I confess I have not heard of it.’

‘Do not be flippant, Kartono,’ snaps Nagasena. ‘I will not stand for it.’

‘Apologies, master,’ says Kartono, instantly contrite. ‘But I find the idea of divining omens through painting… unusual in these times.’

‘That is because you do not paint, Kartono,’ points out Nagasena. ‘The ancient artists believed a spark of the divine moved in every artist. They believed it was sometimes possible to discern a portion of heaven’s scheme for mankind if one had eyes to see it. Jin Nong, the great artist of Zhou, was said to have painted the greatest picture in the world, and when he looked upon what he had wrought, he saw the will of heaven and went mad, for such things are not for mortals to know. He burned the painting, foreswore his previous life and became a hermit in the mountains, where he dwelled alone with his secrets. Those who desired a quick and easy route to wisdom would seek him out and beg him to teach them what he knew, but Jin Nong would always send such fools away. Eventually, a band of unscrupulous men captured Jin Nong and tortured him in an attempt to prise the secrets of the divine from him, but Jin Nong told them nothing and eventually his captors threw him from a cliff.’

‘Not a happy story,’ says Kartono. ‘I hope you do not plan on following Jin Nong’s footsteps?’

‘I am talented, Kartono, but I am not thattalented,’ says Nagasena. ‘Anyway, the story does not end there.’

‘No? So what happened next?’

‘When Jin Nong’s soul departed his body, the gods interceded and allowed the artist his choice of existence for his next life on earth.’

‘He was reincarnated?’

‘So the legends say,’ replies Nagasena.

‘What did he choose to return as?’

‘Some say he reincarnated as pomegranate tree in the Lu Shong gardens, while others claim he came back as a cloud. Either way, he achieved the favour of Heaven, which is something to be proud of.’

‘I suppose it would be,’ says Kartono. ‘So… do you see anything in your painting?’

‘You tell me,’ answers Nagasena, stepping away from the stretcher frame.

Kartono turns to look at the painting and Nagasena watches his eyes roam the colours and lines rendered there. Nagasena knows he has talent as an artist, and the landscape beyond the shutters is rendered on the silk with uncommon skill.

He is not seeking approbation, but confirmation of something that has been troubling him all day.

‘Speak,’ commands Nagasena, when Kartono does not say anything. ‘And be honest.’

Kartono nods and says, ‘The tops of the palace buildings gather like conspirators, and the mountains tower over everything. They cast a cold shadow over the land. I thought the peaks shone like silver, but you have painted them in the white of mourning. The clouds hang low and brood like dissatisfied children amid the heavy sky. I do not like this picture.’

‘Why not?’ asks Nagasena.

‘I sense threat from it, as if something malevolent lurks in the warp and weft of the silk.’

Kartono looks up from the picture, frowning as he sees nothing of its content in the world beyond the windows of the tower. The sun shines golden on the mountains, and lazy clouds drift like wandering minstrels across an invitingly open blue sky.