The horse went plodding wearily towards it. The slouching rider straightened up, like someone shrugging off a tedious day. The coat was dark and slick; its collar masked the traveller’s features. There was just the glint of watchful eyes between the topmost button and the hat.

The countryside lay windswept and deserted. There was no sound but the hiss of sleet, the squish of hoofs in mud. The traveller rode into the yard and swung down from the saddle. The inn loomed dark against the sky, an upstairs shutter leaking candlelight.

Tethering the horse in the back stable, the rider sloshed around to the inn door. It creaked and let a gust of rain blow in across the threshold. The skirts of the stormcoat flapped and then hung limp. The candles in the taproom flickered and the fire leaped up, illuminating faces as they turned.

The shrouded figure stood there like a shadow as the candle flames grew steady once again. The other people in the room stared back uneasily. The Terror had a long arm: it could knock at any door.

The rustling of the coat seemed loud as the traveller crossed the taproom. The landlord waited nervously. The nearest candles lit the half-masked face. The eyes above the collar were a woman’s, cool as sapphires. A few rat’s tails of dark brown hair hung damply from beneath her tricorne hat.

The landlord didn’t feel relieved. Her gaze was too intense. The woman reached up casually and unfastened the collar of her coat. The face beneath was pale and sculpted, like an aristo’s. Her smile was pretty, but skin-deep; the eyes as hard and heartless as a whore’s.

"A bad day to be on the road," he ventured.

The poised young woman nodded, still unbuttoning her coat. She wore a tight black bodice underneath. The landlord’s eyes were drawn to her plump cleavage. His gaze moved to her nipped-in waist and the inch of naked skin above her belt. And then it focused on something that really jolted him. A blunderbuss-type pistol in a bucket holster slung against her thigh.

The woman’s lips curved mirthlessly. "A glass of your best Cognac. I feel like I’ve ridden all the way from Hell." She spoke French with a crisp Italian accent. The nearest drinkers eyed her curiously.

From one of the rooms upstairs there came the sudden sound of two girls giggling.

The woman massaged her gloved hands, as if preoccupied. The landlord fetched a brandy glass. "I can offer you the garret, Miss," he said.

"I’d rather share with friends, if I can find them. A French brunette and an English blonde. I heard they went this way." She fixed him with her sapphire stare and watched his face turn ashen, then let her gaze rise up to the low ceiling.

"We’ve seen no ladies like that here," the landlord said, and swallowed. "Those are just my maids … making sure the beds are warm …"

Even as he spoke, there was a creaking on the staircase and a fair-haired girl came down into the room. She wore a loose-necked linen shirt that reached to her bare thighs, and clearly didn’t care who ogled her. Her pleasant, rounded face was flushed, but not from bashfulness. It seemed she had been warming beds, all right.

She ignored the newcomer as well. "Another bottle, Landlord, if you please." She had a breezy haughtiness that spoke of her good breeding, and her accent made it clear where she was from.

The woman in the stormcoat caught the landlord’s eye and smiled. She tugged off her right gauntlet to reveal a glove of gauzy lace beneath. The English girl came padding up, still glowing with good humour. Her clear blue eyes were very bright, and her breasts moved subtly underneath the shirt.

She’d drunk a lot of wine and had an orgasm or two, but the landlord’s nervousness got through at last. Nell gave the man a friendly frown, then glanced at the young woman. Her eyes flicked to the blunderbuss. Her flush began to fade.

"Good evening," said the girl in black, "my name is Nicoletta, and I have a message from a friend of yours."

Her lace-gloved hand flashed down to grasp the pistol. Nell felt her stomach turn a somersault. She lashed out wildly at the glass of brandy and sprayed it into Nicoletta’s face. The Italian girl recoiled as burning liquid filled her eyes, still hauling out the stumpy blunderbuss. Nell sprang while she was struggling to cock it. The two girls wrestled for the ugly gun.

They lurched against the bar and Nell forced Nicoletta backwards. The taller woman arched her spine, then hiked her knee into the blonde’s firm belly. Nell jack-knifed with a whoop, and Nicoletta seized her hair. She wrenched the English girl around and shoved her back against the nearest table.

Nell clutched at it and caught herself as the drinkers scrambled clear. Her stomach was a ball of pain, and her scalp felt as raw as if it had been ripped. She turned as the Italian girl brought up her blunderbuss. Reflexively she snatched a mug of ale. With a flick of her wrist she splashed the gun before it could be triggered. The flint sprang forward with a rasp, but the pan of sodden powder didn’t catch.

Nicoletta swore, then ducked as the mug flew past her face. Nell raised both hands and beckoned tauntingly. The dark girl gave a twisted smile and laid the gun aside. She shrugged out of her heavy coat, and the firelight tinged her shoulders and bare arms. The sheath of a curved dagger was tucked underneath her belt. She drew the blade with one smooth movement, weaving patterns in the fuggy air.

Chewing her lip, Nell backed away. The Italian girl prowled forward. The watching drinkers gave them room, but Nell could feel the hunger in their eyes. She glanced towards the stairs but there was no sign of Martine. Her friend was still curled up in bed: still thinking they were somewhere safe tonight.

As Nell drew breath to call her, Nicoletta lunged and slashed. The English girl recoiled from the sharp edge. A table blocked her buttocks and she rolled back over it, revealing what was underneath her shirt. Nicoletta clambered after her, relentless as a cat. "A Louis on the brunette!" someone said.

The blonde girl reached the fireplace and snatched the poker up. She struck out with its blackened tip. It was Nicoletta’s turn to hesitate. Then she picked a stool up with her left hand and edged forward, her blue eyes gleaming as they caught the flames. She pounced abruptly, Nell lashed out, but the poker struck the stool. One of the legs was splintered off; Nicoletta let it go and forced Nell back against the mantelpiece. The blonde girl just had time to bring the poker up athwart. She blocked Nicoletta’s wrist with it. The two girls strained against the iron bar.

The heat of the fire scorched Nell’s legs and wafted up her shirt. She could smell the linen start to singe. The glinting dagger edged towards her cheek. Nicoletta’s sculpted face was grimacing with effort. Nell strained back with gritted teeth. And then her shirt caught fire.

She felt the lick of flame against her bottom and powered forward with a furious yell. Caught by surprise despite herself, Nicoletta lost her balance and toppled back with Nell on top of her. Their fall was interrupted by an unexpected jolt, and the Italian girl cried out and arched her spine. Then there was the snap of wood and they tumbled to the flagstones. Nicoletta gurgled bloodily and slumped.

Nell scrambled to her feet and hauled the shirt over her head. The garment crumpled up and burned. The drinkers goggled at her nudity. The Italian girl lay motionless, her blue eyes fixed and staring. She’d fallen on the broken stool and the splintered leg had gouged into her heart.

Nell stared at her, then looked around and saw Martine on the landing, leaning on the banisters with a sheet wrapped round her breasts. The French girl’s impish smile was framed by tousled chestnut hair.

"I wondered where you’d got to with that wine ..."

* * *

Nicoletta’s pistol was a Turkish blunderbuss with a nine-inch barrel and a shortened butt. Nell leaned back against the pillows, weighing up the gun. It would be a killer at close range. The one-and-a-half-inch bore was packed with slugs.

Martine sat next to her, cross-legged. She was searching Nicoletta’s saddlebags. Nobody downstairs had any wish to get involved – but Nell had taken two gold coins from the man who’d bet on the Italian girl.

The saddlebags were well-stocked with provisions. There was gunpowder and shot to keep a dozen men at bay. But Martine’s practised fingers quickly found a leather purse and spilled its contents on the counterpane. The candlelight reflected off a heap of silver coins. Nell picked one up and peered at it. "Venetian ducats, by the look of them."

Martine slid off the bed and crossed to Nicoletta’s body, which was crumpled in the corner of the room. Crouching down, she loosened the black corset. A trapped breath sighed from Nicoletta’s lungs. Martine groped down the dead assassin’s cleavage and found a folded paper nestling there.

She fished it out and opened it, then handed it to Nell. She couldn’t hope to read the flowing script. Nell frowned at the letter, going through it word by word. "Harder than books?" the French girl teased.

"Yeah, but it’s in Italian, though," said Nell.

At length she had the sense of it. "It’s from Monica, of course." Martine just nodded, looking sombre now. The pair of them had bested the Black Widow more than once. They knew the feud would last as long as blood flowed in her veins.

"She’s writing this from Venice," Nell said slowly. "She says she’s ill … consumption … and she thinks she’s going to die. She paid this bitch to make sure she outlives us. I wait for the tidings of their death. It’s the only thing that keeps me from my grave."

The news left Martine silent for a minute. Then she raised her hard brown eyes. "She needs someone to bury her, I guess."

"She’s finished anyway," said Nell, "and this was her last throw. I know what you’re thinking, love, but she’s not worth it. Let’s rest up somewhere warm and let her die."

The French girl grimly shook her head. "I can’t forget her, Nell. The Widow’s always owned a part of me. She sold me into slavery, remember? I won’t be truly free until I put her in the ground."

"She might be dead already, though," Nell murmured. "And the middle of winter’s not the time to go to Italy."

"She’s hanging on for us," said Martine wryly. "The least that we can do is close the coffin lid on her. And besides, they say that Venice is the world’s most lovely city. Once the debt’s been paid, we can see it for ourselves."

Nell stared back at her, then sighed. "Oh, very well," she said. The French girl grinned and kissed her on the mouth. Nell made a show of coyness and then matched her, tongue for tongue. They tumbled back onto the bed, and left the dead girl sulking where she slumped.

* * *

"I read a poem by Milton once," Nell murmured. "Long is the road, and hard, he said, that out of Hell leads up to light."

Martine gave a twisted smile. "I guess we must be going the other way."

The canal down which they glided was as narrow as a lane, with gloomy houses towering on each side. The gondolier worked silently, his face wrapped in a scarf. He might have been the Ferryman of Death.

They’d travelled for a month to reach the city. The weather had been miserable, the short days darkened by ferocious storms. The girls both felt bedraggled and bone-weary. And Venice, cloaked in winter, had a melancholy air.

The citizens were trying to keep the shadows at arms’ length. Their Carnival was in full swing, and coloured lanterns hung from every bridge. The streets and squares were lit by yellow torchflames. But the revelry was muted here, and twilight lay like silt on the canal.

Here and there the girls had glimpsed masked figures in the dusk. The carnival-goers watched them pass, grotesquely faceless in their finery. But there was nobody in sight by the time they reached their destination: an old palazzo, ravaged by decay. The gondolier tied up at the jetty. Martine and Nell exchanged a glance and climbed out of the boat. Martine wore Nicoletta’s coat, which muffled her small frame, the collar buttoned up over her face. She carried the dead girl’s pistol on a crossbelt underneath, together with her pair of holster guns. Nell had a scarf across her mouth and wore a heavy cloak which hid the tell-tale scarlet of her coat. Her seven-shot Nock’s volleygun was balanced on her shoulder, her gloved thumb hooked around the cocking spur.

There was silence in the passage, just the rhythmic slap of water and the distant murmur of the Carnival. The gondolier glanced at them, as if having second thoughts, then worked the heavy knocker on the door. After a pause, a pair of shutters opened with a creak and a sharp-faced girl leaned out to peer at them. She wore a man’s white periwig and was made up like a fop. "Who is it?" she demanded haughtily.

"A lady by the name of Nicoletta," said the man. "She and her maid have business with the mistress of the house."

The girl looked from Martine to Nell, her powdered face impassive. "You’re just in time to pay your last respects." She ducked inside again, and Martine paid the gondolier. By the time the door had opened, he was fading like a phantom in the dusk.

The foppish girl was at the door. She wore black livery, like a footman. Ushering them in, she gave a hint of her disdain. Her clothes were mannish but they emphasised her figure. Perhaps her foremost duty was to warm the Widow’s bed.

They came into a bare room, lit by candles. The plaster was decaying in the city’s noisome air. Floor-length drapes were drawn across the windows. A coffin lay on trestles at the centre of the room.

Martine stared at the closed lid, then looked round at the servant. The girl gave a superior smile. "The Mistress isn’t dead yet: rest assured. I’ll bring you to her presently – but leave your weapons, please. She values every minute she has left."

They could understand just enough Italian to follow what she said. Martine caught Nell’s eye and shrugged. They laid their guns out on the coffin lid. The blunderbuss and volleygun, Martine’s matched duelling pieces and Nell’s multi-barrelled pistol, side by side. The English girl’s long bayonet stayed hidden in its sheath, as did the pocket gun in Martine’s stays.

"My," The servant licked her lips. "What well-endowed young ladies." Her haughtiness made Martine itch to puncture it with something very sharp. But something wasn’t right, she thought. The girl’s tone was too mocking. She saw that Nell had sensed it too. Impulsively they reached towards their guns.

Before their fingers could touch wood, the drapes were thrown aside, revealing black-clad girls and levelled guns. Martine and Nell went rigid as they saw they were surrounded. The servant hid a smirk behind her hand. The ambushers wore masks between their sombre hats and coats, as if they’d just come from the Carnival.

One false move would see them ripped apart by shot and ball. Martine raised her empty hands. Her heart was pounding thickly in her chest. She looked across at Nell. "I should have listened to you, love." The English girl smiled wryly back at her.

Then they heard the rustling of flounces as the Widow glided in like a black queen.

Martine saw at once that she was in the best of health, as beautiful as she had always been. But one of her smooth cheeks still bore the scar of Martine’s blade, and her dark eyes smouldered with triumphant hate.

"I was wondering how long you’d take," she told them. "It even crossed my mind that Nicoletta might have done for both of you. She was the best assassin I could buy, but I knew that you could beat her. So I sold her the line that I was sick – and let you follow it right back to me."

"We came here for the funeral," Martine said evenly, "but I reckon we can wait a little while."

Monica’s smile was venomous. "Not long, you little tramp. And not for mine." She sauntered past them to the polished coffin. "The governors of Venice think I’m leaving them in this. The funeral barge is ready to depart. And the casket’s stuffed with fifty thousand ducats. I’m not about to pay a tax on it!"

Martine looked round at the decrepit chamber. "I guess you saved it on the maintenance."

"I’ve spent six months in this decaying city. Hiring out my girls as killers, or as courtesans. I’ve played the factions off against each other, and they’ve paid me. But I’m wise enough to know when it’s the moment to move on."

Nell glanced towards the coffin. "Like my father used to say - Where your treasure is, there shall your heart be also."

"I leave at dawn," purred Monica, unfazed by the remark. She looked her sullen prisoners in the face. "Which leaves me just one long, dark night to entertain my guests." She smiled like a wanton child – then gestured, and her masked cohorts closed in.

* * *

Someone slapped her hard across the face and Martine grunted. She was sitting naked in a chair, hands tied behind her back. It felt as if she’d just been in a girl-fight. Her breasts were as tender as bruised fruit, and her scalp was aching where they’d pulled her hair. There were scratches on her skin from when her clothes had been torn off. The bitches hadn’t hit her much, but they’d pinched and tweaked her where it hurt the most.

Martine’s tormentor grasped her jaw and forced her head back up. She was a north Italian blonde with innocent blue eyes. Her black coat was unbuttoned to reveal a half-laced bodice. Her cleavage gleamed with pearly beads of sweat.

The other girls were lounging round the bedroom. Their half-shed garments made them look like mourners at the end of a long wake. One or two still had their masks slung loosely round their necks. The empty eyeholes seemed to mock Martine.

"That’s enough," said Monica as the blonde girl raised her hand. There was a sated smugness in her voice. "That’s tenderised the bitches. Now it’s time to let them stew." Martine glared up, then jerked her head away. She twisted awkwardly and saw Nell slumped between the bedposts, secured to them by ropes around her wrists. The English girl was nude as well, her blonde hair in her eyes, her round breasts dangling as her body drooped. Martine could see the drops of blood around her tawny nipples where a hatpin had been jabbed into the flesh.

The Widow’s girls trooped out into the passage. Monica lingered, running her fingers through Martine’s thick hair. The French girl tried to duck away and the lace-gloved fingers tightened. "You have till dawn," the Widow purred, "and then I’ll have you strangled while I watch."

She swished out of the room and left the two of them alone. Martine tugged at her bonds, but they held firm. Some of the candles had gone out; the rest were guttering. How long had they been tortured for? How long until first light?

"Nell …" she whispered huskily. The blonde girl didn’t answer. Martine felt a twinge of lover’s dread. She moistened her lips – and heard a tapping sound.

It was coming down the corridor towards them. Something about it made the fine hairs rise on Martine’s neck. It paused outside the bedroom, and the door creaked open slowly. A man in black with shoulder-length fair hair came stalking through.

Martine eyed him warily. The gloom was deepening. Her bare skin prickled with unease. "So who are you?" she said.

His gaunt face turned towards her in the dimness. "The Widow pays me to clear up the bodies after her. Tomorrow she goes to her reward ..." He smiled crookedly. "And she wants a pair of coffins for her guests."

Martine curled her lip. "I’ll bet she gives you lots of business. Don’t tell me – you’ve had so much practice, you can measure bodies with a glance."

"Not quite," the man said hoarsely, moving closer. The cane he carried tapped across the floor. It touched Martine’s bare leg and he leaned forward. Despite herself, she flinched against the chair. The dwindling light had caught his eyes – two sightless, milky orbs. "I have to do the work by feel," he said.

Groping out, he grasped her breasts and squeezed them painfully. Martine gasped in her throat. The blind man leered. "My compliments, young lady, on your figure. I’ll make sure that the lid allows you room."

Martine squirmed as his hands went sliding down towards her waist. "How much is she paying you?" she asked, trying hard to keep disgust out of her voice.

"Enough for two cheap boxes." He was measuring her hips.

"Why settle for just two," she said, "when the city of Venice would pay you to make ten?"

He pulled her legs apart and started fondling her thighs. His blind eyes were level with her belly. "Ten for whom?" he asked, not looking up.

"Every woman in this house. We’ll make it happen, if you let us go."

The undertaker smiled grotesquely. "Why should I risk that? Better a contract for two coffins than an empty promise of eight more."

"The Widow’s already got her own," said Martine steadily. "But did she tell you what’s inside? Just bags of earth, perhaps?"

"Enough to give it weight," the blind man nodded.

"Fifty thousand ducats," said Martine. "How heavy’s that?"

Now he raised his sightless eyes towards her. Martine smiled. "We came to steal it, and we’ll give you half."

The undertaker pondered for a moment. Her bare skin crawled under his blank white stare. Then he straightened up and felt his way around behind her. "You strike a tempting bargain, girl," he said. She waited, barely breathing, while he fumbled with her bonds. The tight cords loosened round her wrists. The man stood back and let her free herself.

"You wouldn’t take advantage of a blind man?" he said dryly.

"Of course not," she assured him – and he pulled his cane apart, revealing its sharp core of polished steel. He pressed the point against her breast, indenting the firm flesh. The French girl froze, her brown eyes very wide.

"I’ll leave you to your business then," the undertaker said. His sword-stick traced her nipple and she winced. "My hearse will be waiting for her barge on the far side of the lagoon. Bring the coffin to me – and be sure to kill as many as you can."

He snapped his cane together without fumbling, and tapped his way into the corridor. Martine shuddered convulsively, then clambered to her feet and freed Nell from the crucifying posts. The English girl slumped, warm and soft against her. "Come on, love," Martine cajoled. "We’ve got some work to do."

Nell shook off her muzziness, though her pale complexion had grown paler still. Their clothes were strewn around the room, and the two girls dressed as quickly as they could. Martine pulled on her breeches and blue frock coat, but didn’t bother with her tattered shirt. Bare-breasted, she shook back her hair, her dark eyes smouldering. Her body hurt – and ached to take revenge.

Nell left her own shirt where it lay, but put her waistcoat on, buttoning it half-way so that it didn’t squeeze the bruised globes of her breasts. She shrugged her red coat over it, and then her dull eyes lit. Her bayonet in its leather sheath had simply been discarded on the bed. She picked it up and slowly drew the seventeen-inch blade. It glinted in the candlelight. She smiled grimly. Martine smiled back.

They slipped into the passageway and tiptoed to the stairs. Nell led the way, her bayonet braced, and Martine clutched her shoulder in the gloom. The house was dark and smelled of stagnant water, but there was a glow of candlelight below. They heard their captors murmuring together. One girl laughed; another swore. Nell guessed that they were playing cards or dice.

They crept downstairs into the unlit hallway. The candlelight was seeping through a door that stood ajar. They sidled past and reached the room where the coffin lay in darkness. Their guns were still lined up along the lid.

Without a pause, still less a word, the two girls chose their weapons. Levelling her volleygun, Nell crossed the hallway to the other door. She kicked it fully open and the girls looked up in shock. They were sitting round a table strewn with cards.

"Nock-Nock!" said the English girl and triggered the big gun. The clustered barrels went off with a roar. The Italian girls were reaching for their pistols when the spray of bullets hit them at chest height. Two of them went tumbling over backwards in their chairs; another squirmed and slithered to the floor. They were whores as well as hired guns, all cleavages and corsets underneath the sombre overcoats they wore. Martine fired both her pistols through the spreading gout of smoke. A fourth girl’s head flipped back, cascading blood. The innocent-eyed blonde cried out and clawed her punctured bosom. Her cleavage overflowed as she collapsed.

The last girl drew a slim stiletto blade and lunged at Nell, her pretty face contorted furiously. Nell struck her with the heavy butt and sent her reeling backwards, then dropped the gun and drew her bayonet. She grasped and held the girl’s right wrist and stabbed her in the midriff. The Italian grimaced wretchedly. "Be careful," muttered Nell, "the wind might change."

She wrenched the blade back out again and crimson splashed the floorboards. The stricken girl slid down the wall, her last expression frozen to her face.

One of the slumped girls wore a sword, and Martine drew the weapon with a rasp. She still had Nicoletta’s pistol slung across her belly, the leather crossbelt taut between her breasts. Impulsively she plunged into the hallway. Another black-clad harlot blocked her path. Martine thrust the wicked blade into the girl’s firm bosom and watched her mouth become an O of shock.

The harlot whimpered and collapsed as she jerked the rapier free. Martine’s breasts were flecked with blood. She shouldered past as two more girls appeared. She hadn’t learned the finer points of swordsmanship from Nell, but she had a wildcat talent with a blade.

The first girl was still wearing a loose nightshirt, her naked bosom joggling underneath. She had a rapier of her own and thrust in desperately. Martine swiped her blade aside and stabbed her midway between tits and navel. The girl doubled forward with a groan, blood soaking through her nightshirt. Martine was already turning to fend off the second one. Their blades clashed in the gloom and shock went rippling through her breasts. The Italian was half-dressed, her hair unbrushed. Martine drove her backwards with cold fury, then battered through her guard and skewered her breast.

The harlot arched her spine with an orgasmic grunt, then slumped. Martine ran lightly up the stairs. Nell followed at her heels, her pistol braced. A girl in a black corset tried to block them on the landing, taking aim with a Sicilian fowling-piece. Nell fired past her friend and sent the harlot rearing backwards. A red rose bloomed on her bare chest and spilled between her breasts as she collapsed.

"Monica, your coffin’s ready for you!" Martine called. She swished her blade to left and right, leaving speckles of bright blood across the walls. Another girl in stays appeared at the far end of the passage and levelled a horse-pistol in both hands. Martine dropped her sword, grasped Nicoletta’s blunderbuss and fired before the falling blade had hit the floor. The harlot wailed as her corset sprouted wounds like summer poppies. She was flung against a shuttered window, crashing through and into the canal.

The blast of the big pistol left a hissing in their ears, but otherwise the smoky house was silent. Martine and Nell exchanged a glance and began to check the bedrooms. They found rumpled linen, scattered clothes, but no sign of their prey. Then they heard a noise outside – the creaking of a jetty, and the steady splashing of a muffled oar.

The two girls rushed back down the stairs and found the front room empty. The coffin full of coins had disappeared. Nell ran out through the front door and glimpsed the funeral barge. She fired vainly after it before the dark shape vanished in the night.

"Shit, come on!" said Martine and they started to give chase – following crooked alleyways that soon became a claustrophobic maze. Then they reached a bridge over the dark canal again, just as a boat of carnival-goers came in sight. Most of them were courtesans in masks and gaudy dresses. Coloured lanterns hung from poles, illuminating silken cleavages. Martine gave Nell a nod and swung astride the balustrade. The two girls dropped onto the passing boat. The giggling crowd of ladies barely noticed, assuming they were fellow revellers.

The unlit barge was coming in the opposite direction. Nell’s pistol still had two shots left, and Martine had a gun tucked down her breeches. "Where are your masks? You must wear masks!" said someone drunkenly, not noticing the blood on Martine’s breasts. The French girl took a proffered velvet mask and put it on. Nell tied a golden mask in place, as if to match the braid on her old coat.

The funeral barge bore down on them. A black-cloaked girl was crouching at the prow. The lanterns glinted on the barrels of her fowling-piece. "Make way!" she called in an imperious voice. The revellers’ boat began to veer, and Martine’s pistol flamed. The girl flipped backwards with a squawk and splashed into the murky waterway. Nell fired at another black-clad harlot, shattering her sternum, and the girl clutched vainly at her bloodied breasts. The oarsmen were so startled by the gunfire that they allowed the barges to collide head-on. The revellers staggered with the jolt, but Martine and Nell leaped forward, boarding the black vessel as it shouldered past their boat.

The foppish servant girl was standing frozen by the coffin, a look of horror on her powdered face. Martine clubbed her contemptuously with the butt of her spent pistol and swung around to look for Monica. Nell took aim towards the dumbstruck oarsman. "Keep going," she told him flatly. "We’ve a rendezvous to keep."

Some of the squealing revellers had climbed onto the barge, subsiding into giggles of relief. They scarcely noticed the pine coffin underneath its pall. There was no-one else on board the barge: no sign of Monica.

Martine grasped the linen stock around the servant’s throat. She hauled the dazed girl up. "Where is she, then?"

The servant struggled not to choke. "My mistress is well clear ... She knew a greedy pair like you would chase the coffin first."

"Bitch," said Martine bitterly, to one or both of them. She shoved the servant down again. The masked girls were still giggling drunkenly. Nell kept her pistol levelled at the boatman. The barge cruised out into the dark lagoon.

The sky to the east was already turning paler, becoming rosy as the dawn welled up. The boatman laboured sullenly and the barge made steady progress. Martine made out a dark shape on the shore ahead of them. She saw it was a horse-drawn hearse, backed up beside a jetty. The gaunt figure of the undertaker waited next to it. He had two black-cloaked mutes with him: one in the driving seat, the other standing like a watchful guard. Both men carried carbines and had black scarves round their faces. Martine picked up a fallen gun and eased the swan-necked hammer to half cock.

"At least we got the coins," said Nell, although she sounded wary. "The Widow can die another day. And just imagine how she hates us now!"

Martine smiled wryly as the barge approached the jetty. The revellers blinked towards the hearse. The night’s frivolity was wearing thin. The blind man cocked his head, his gloved hands clasped atop his sword-stick. "You kept your side of the bargain, girls. Allow me to keep mine."

Carelessly he raised one hand. His mutes swung up their guns. Martine and Nell both hit the deck as the carbines belched a gout of stinking smoke. One ball struck the boatman, spraying crimson from his chest to splash the cleavage of a wide-eyed courtesan. Nell rolled and returned fire with her pistol. The man beside the undertaker crumpled as her shot tore through his brain.

The captive servant saw her chance and sprang onto the jetty. "Oh please," she wailed, "I want no part of this!" She blundered through the fog bank which the gunfire had produced. Nell crouched, nursing her last shot. The hearse’s driver rammed a fresh load home.

As the servant reached the bank, a murky figure barred her way. She heard a rasping sound that made her flinch. "Hush, my child," the undertaker said: "The dead are sleeping." Then he thrust his sword-stick through the firm bulge of her breast.

She jerked and wriggled, open-mouthed, her white face like a doll’s. He groped at her with his free hand. "Ah, yes. A size eight coffin, I should think." Then he dragged the slim blade free, and she folded with a whimper, spilling out her heart’s blood as she slumped into the reeds.

The smoke was dissipating now. He sensed it and moved sideways. Martine tried to draw a bead, the borrowed pistol steady in her grasp. Then the curtain at the back of the hearse was opened with a jerk – to reveal a multi-barrelled organ gun.

A pale red-headed girl in black was crouched behind the weapon and she put a taper to the fuse at once. The gun had ten barrels in a row, protruding in an arc. They fired in rapid sequence as the fuse ran from one chamber to the next. A fan of bullets sprayed the barge and the befuddled revellers. Most were too tipsy to react before they were cut down. A fresh and filthy cloud of smoke engulfed the landing stage. Martine plunged headlong into it. The stench of bad eggs almost made her gag. The hearse’s driver stood up on his seat, his carbine ready, peering down into the fog as it started to disperse across the lake. He glimpsed Martine below him and her pistol made more smoke, the bullet punching upward through his lung. The man spread his cloaked arms and choked, blood soaking through his scarf. The carbine flipped out of his grasp. Martine dashed forward, focusing on it. She dropped her empty pistol and reached up to catch the gun, not bothering to turn her head as the red-haired female mute swung into view. The latter was eighteen at most, her face both sweet and bitter, with the pale skin of a girl who shunned the sun. She dropped from the hearse and raised a pistol in one lace-gloved hand. Nell shot her through the thinning smoke. A poppy blurted from the girl’s black gown.

Martine caught the falling carbine with a slap of wood on flesh. The undertaker heard the sound. His white eyes fixed unnervingly on her. Letting his sword-stick fall aside, he reached beneath his cloak to grasp the blunderbuss that was slung across his chest. "Even I couldn’t miss with one of these," he sneered, unhooking the weapon from its crossbelt as his gloved thumb drew the hammer back.

Martine pivoted and threw the carbine to her shoulder. She fired and hit the blind man in the brow. The sudden hole contrasted with his staring, sightless eyeballs. The undertaker tossed his head and toppled like a scarecrow in a gale.

The echoes seemed to ripple round the shores of the lagoon. Abruptly the carbine felt too heavy. Martine led it drop. The hearse’s team were badly spooked and straining at their traces. The lifeless revellers strewed the barge or floated in the lake.

Picking up her pistol, she walked back along the jetty, her bare breasts daubed with blood and grimed with smoke. Nell pulled off her gilded mask and gave a weary grin. She turned towards the coffin full of coins.

And then, before their very eyes, the lid was jolted loose. It slid aside, and Monica sat up. She was no longer wearing widow’s weeds, just a black corset and stockings, and she had a pocket pistol in her hand. She triggered it at Nell before the blonde girl could react. The bullet struck her waistcoat, just above the rounded swell of her left breast. Martine glimpsed the puff of smoke. Nell reared back with a grunt. She slumped across the gunwale. Martine heard herself cry out in disbelief.

Monica grinned ferociously and started to reload, her dark eyes fixed intently on Martine. Her gun was an Aubton .75 with a stubby three-inch barrel – accurate only at close range, but Martine had darted forward to help Nell. The French girl felt the weight of the spent pistol in her grasp. She groped in the pocket of her coat and plucked a paper cartridge from the depths.

"Nice tits," taunted Monica. "A perfect pair of targets." Her own breasts strained against her corset as she primed her gun.

Martine bit the twist of paper open and poured ball and powder down into the bore. She put a last pinch in the pan, her fingers almost fumbling. Monica worked with icy calm, already ramming home her pistol’s load. Martine pulled her own ramrod out and followed suit, heart pounding. But the other gun’s short barrel meant that Monica would finish loading first.

The beautiful Sicilian widow smiled triumphantly and hooked the pistol’s flint back with a click. Martine still had her ramrod down the barrel, but she thumbed and fired her gun unthinkingly. It went off with a wild flash and sent the ramrod flying. The steel shaft struck the widow’s chest and penetrated like a crossbow bolt.

Monica made a guttural sound. Her pistol fired and missed. She stared down at the protruding ramrod, utter stupefaction on her face. A blob of scarlet welled up round the shaft and dribbled downward. The widow whimpered and slumped back into the silk-lined coffin’s narrow bed.

Gasping, Martine dropped her gun and rushed over to Nell. Her friend was lolling from the gunwale, moaning breathlessly. Monica’s shot had torn a raw hole in her calfskin waistcoat. And yet there was no sign of blood. Instead, a glint of gold caught Martine’s eye.

Puzzled, she helped Nell to sit up, then very carefully unfastened the vest. The blonde girl winced and bit her lip. There was a massive bruise on her left breast. Martine’s anxious look became a grin of sheer relief. The bullet had struck the gold Louis which Nell had pocketed back at the inn.

"Ow, that hurts," the English girl said faintly.

Martine gently cupped her breast. "It’s lucky you’re well-cushioned, eh?" she teased.

Getting up, she went over to the coffin. Monica lay slumped inside, staring blindly up into the morning sky. The blood trails from the planted ramrod matched her painted lips. She had always been a whore beneath her weeds.

She’d clearly ditched her freight of coins to make room for herself – but a single bag was lying in her lap. Martine lifted it and heard the chink of close-packed silver. To a tramp like her, it carried echoes of a promised land.

Nell had clambered up and was adjusting her red coat. Martine kissed her on the cheek, and they walked along the jetty to the hearse. "Where to now?" Nell asked as they climbed up onto the box seat.

Martine shrugged and took the reins.

"Wherever the road might lead us, love," she smiled.