Rasputin
[ra-spyoo-tin, -tn; Russian ruh-spoo-tyin]
1. Grigori Efimovich
[gri-gawr-ee i-fee-muh-vich;; Russian gryi-gaw-ryee yi-fyee-muh-vyich] (Show IPA), 1871–1916, Siberian peasant monk who was very influential at the court of Czar Nicholas II and Czarina Alexandra.
2. any person who exercises great but insidious influence.
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Ian wrung his hands nervously. He looked around at the opulence surrounding him, which did nothing to sooth his nerves.
“You want some advice, kid?” The guard said. THe man was leading Ian through the halls towards his destination.
“Uh, yes?”
“Don’t bother with the king. Greet him, show respect for him and all that, but don’t go to him to actually get something done.”
“What? But...but he’s the king. Who else would I go to?”
THe guard looked almost hesitant to answer, even though he was the one who brought it up. “His advisor. He’s the one with the real power. You didn’t hear this from me, but the king’s an idiot. A fool who does whatever his advisor tells him to without question.”
“That’s…”
“Don’t say it. It’s not blasphemy or treachery or anything like that. It’s a fact. A simple fact. Everyone knows it except the king himself. Hell, his own son complains about it to everyone willing to listen. Trust me, if you want something done, the royal advisor is the one to ask.” The guard hesitated before continuing. And when he did, it was so quiet Ian almost did not hear the words. “Although you might just want to avoid it altogether.”
“Why?”
The guard’s well trained steps seemed to falter a bit and his halberd, which he had kept perfectly straight, seemed to drop a bit.
“The royal advisor is, well, he’s not the most exemplary person in the world. It’s...it’s probably best if I don’t say anything else, really.”
“Is there something wrong with the advisor? I mean, you tell me that I should go to him, then you tell me I shouldn’t? Which is it?” Ian asked with genuine curiosity.
“Both, really. If you want something done, he is the one to go to. But, well, the odds of him actually helping with whatever your problem is, isn’t very good. He might even be responsible for your problems in the first place.”
“How can you know that? You don’t even know what my problems are.”
“Exactly my point.”
Ian let those words sink in. Considering what it implied, Ian was suddenly much more nervous than he had already been. A bead of sweat trickled down his back and his hands became cold as sweat formed on his palms.
“So what should I do?”
“Tell the king for the ceremony of it. Then tell the royal advisor. If you’re lucky, something will get done.”
“And if I’m not?”
“Pray to whatever god will listen that things don’t get worse.”
“Surely he can’t be that bad? I mean, he must have some decency in him.”
The guard did not answer. He simply looked at Ian out of the corner of his eye. Ian could see pity in the man’s otherwise hardened face. It was that look more than the guard’s words that got under Ian’s skin. That one look spoke more than their conversation. It was what made Ian question whether or not he should actually go through with his appeal. But no, he had to. If he did not, then his friends and family would not survive for long.
The rest of the walk was done in silence. Ian got the distinct impression that it was not because the guard had nothing more to say. But it became a moot point when they reached the large, ornate doors to the throne room. Two more guards stood on either side of the imposing entrance. With great ceremony, they opened the doors. Ian took a deep breath, steeled his nerves, and entered the throne room, ready to plead his case before whoever would listen.
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Honestly, I'm not sure what to say right now. So yeah, just you know, have a nice day and all that.
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