The Power (The Magnificent 12 4)

Mack frowned. This felt like the kind of thing that might be on the test. And already he’d forgotten all the names.

“Battle?” he said.

“Yeah, Mughals and Sikhs. With a little help from the Cossacks.”

Taras Bulba seemed to catch the general drift of what was being discussed and he liked battle talk. He drew an amazing scimitar with his free hand and brandished both it and the leg of lamb while yelling something enthusiastic in a language Mack had no chance of ever understanding.

“Taras Bulba was down here guarding a group of Cossack traders, and now it looks like he might get dragged into this war, since the guru’s men confiscated his trade goods.”

“What does any of this have to do with . . .” Mack stopped talking and began noticing certain things. For example, he noticed that all of the men in the room, like the men on horses, carried swords. And the tent was made of skins. And there was an open fire.

And he noticed that no one was on a smartphone. No one. When was the last time you saw a dozen people in a skin tent and no one was texting?

Then Mack noticed a person he’d missed at first. She was about his age. She had black hair down to her waist and was dressed in a long robe-like thing. Mack was not a fashion expert. It probably had some better name, but “robe-like thing” was all he could manage.

She was a beautiful girl. She had almond-shaped eyes and a tiny nose and high cheekbones, and her only possible beauty flaw was the fact that she had a noticeable underbite. In other words, her jaw stuck out just a bit too far.

This girl was also not texting. Nor did she have earbuds in.

She was looking hard at Mack.

Mack said, “OMG?”

No flicker of recognition in the girl’s eyes.

“BRB?” he said, testing her.

Nothing.

There was only one possible explanation, and it took Mack’s breath away. “What year is this?”

Valin laughed. “Very good, Mack. You aren’t stupid, I’ll say that. You have guessed right: this is not the twenty-first century. We have traveled back in time. This is the year 1634.”

Mack blinked. “What?”

“The year 1634. Where—when, I should say—you will witness the betrayal, the terrible humiliation visited on my family by yours. Do you see that girl?”

“The one with the underbite?”

“That’s not fair!” Valin cried. “They didn’t have orthodontists yet!”

The outburst drew the attention of Taras Bulba. He smelled trouble, and he liked trouble. Also leg of lamb.

“You dare to insult her?” Valin demanded.

“I didn’t mean to I was just—”

“That is Boguslawa Bulba, my great-great-great-great-great—”

“Can we just—”

“Silence! You made me lose count! She is my great-great-great-great-great-great-great . . . How many is that?”

“Seven.”

“Okay, nine more. Sixteen greats in all. Grandmother.”

Just then the tent flap opened and in walked a good-looking lad in breeches and a sheepskin jacket. He had skin as pale as milk, freckles, and curly brown hair.