This isn't just craftsmanship; this is precision engineering. Where did Lloyd encounter such concepts? Not Elmsworth. Not the weapons masters. Not the basic texts on architecture or siege engines provided by his tutors. Where did this knowledge originate? The question hammered at him, demanding an answer he didn't possess. Ancient Ferrum schematics found in the archives? Possible, but unlikely. This design felt… efficient. Modern, in a way that defied Riverio's often cumbersome approaches.
Then, his gaze shifted to the faint brown smear on his desk blotter where he'd tested the pump earlier. The rosemary scent still clung faintly to the air. He recalled the demonstration: the shocking initial display with the dung – a calculated risk, bordering on madness, yet undeniably effective in establishing the problem. Lloyd's calm confidence amidst the chaos. The effortless cleaning demonstrated on his own hands. The sheer effectiveness of the product delivered by the ingenuity of the device.
A decision, swift and unexpected even to himself, formed in his mind. A need to verify, to experience it firsthand, unfiltered by his wife's enthusiasm or his son's presentation. Logic dictated relying on expert assessment, but instinct – the instinct of a ruler, a father, confronting a profound anomaly – demanded direct, personal data acquisition. He needed to feel the difference, understand the tactile reality of this 'miracle soap'.
"Attendant," Roy spoke quietly, his voice resonating slightly in the empty room.
From the deepest shadows near the imposing bookshelves, a figure detached itself, melting into existence without a sound. Clad head-to-toe in concealing dark robes, face completely obscured by a deep cowl, the attendant moved with unnerving fluidity, their very presence seeming to absorb the light. Their identity, their gender, even their exact form, remained deliberately ambiguous – one of Roy Ferrum's hidden instruments, utterly loyal, existing only to serve and observe in silence.
"Your Grace?" The voice from within the cowl was muffled, toneless, gender-neutral.
"The… demonstration materials," Roy instructed, the slight hesitation betraying his own lingering disbelief at the situation. "Bring them." He didn't need to specify which materials. The attendant would understand.
The robed attendant didn't react, didn't question the bizarre command. It simply bowed its cowled head slightly and vanished back into the shadows as silently as it had appeared. Moments later, it returned, carrying not the elegant bottle, but the rough burlap bundle Lloyd had discarded. The pungent, earthy smell of fresh cow dung once again filled the study, a stark intrusion into the refined space. The attendant placed the bundle carefully on the floor near the desk, then stepped back into the shadows, resuming its statue-like stillness, awaiting further orders.
Roy stared down at the steaming pile of manure. He thought of Lloyd deliberately plunging his hands into it, the calculated shock value, the absolute confidence that followed. There had better be a damn good reason, Roy had thought then. Now, he needed to understand that reason from the inside out. Is the contrast truly so stark? Is the need demonstrated so effectively? Or was it merely youthful theatrics? He had to know. The ruler needed data. The father needed… understanding.
Taking a deep breath, steeling himself against the ingrained aristocratic revulsion, Roy Ferrum did something utterly unthinkable for the ruler of the Duchy. He leaned down, reached into the burlap, and deliberately plunged his own left hand deep into the warm, yielding mass of cow dung.
The attendant remained perfectly still, betraying no surprise, no judgment. Its purpose was to obey and observe, not to react. Its silence was absolute, its presence merely functional.
Roy straightened up, examining his soiled hand with a detached curiosity that warred with his visceral disgust. The feeling was unpleasant, the smell overwhelming. This is the problem, he thought, echoing Lloyd's earlier statement. The mundane reality of filth. Unavoidable. Persistent. Even for an Arch Duke, though usually dealt with by others. He acknowledged the unpleasant truth. Existing cleansing methods were harsh, inefficient. They cleaned, yes, but at a cost – dried skin, lingering chemical odors, a general sense of abrasion. Lloyd hadn't just presented a product; he'd presented a solution to a universally acknowledged, if rarely spoken of, discomfort.
He then nodded towards the elegant bottle resting on the side table. "Hold this," he commanded the attendant, indicating the dispenser. The robed figure glided forward, picking up the bottle with careful, gloved hands (produced silently from within its robes), holding it steady as instructed.