Only a Name

Neverwhere and Sandman belong to Neil Gaiman.

Notes:
Story takes place before Neverwhere and after The Kindly Ones, so spoilers for basically all of Sandman.

Aitvaras are Lithuanian demons, who appear as black cats in the house. They give goods and money to those who give them their soul, but usually the goods and money are stolen from neighbors, so they're a mixed blessing.

The marquis had taken to London Below like a fish to water. Or, more precisely, like a cat to prowling. Of course, he had not entered the scene with his usual (as he'd come to consider it) modus operandi, consisting of a dramatic entrance, a few clever remarks and a mince or two. On the contrary he'd come to London Below in calculated silence – watching, waiting, considering.

Always be prepared had been his motto long before it became the dull incantation of fidgety, glassy-eyed children. He started out prepared and became even more so as the years passed. He'd gained the knowledge and power – and really the two were indistinguishable – to shape his identity in the minds of the people Below.

A name had formed as well – part and parcel of his newly created persona – and it delighted him that it, like his very existence, was a lie. This particular lie slipped into his life in much the same way he had slipped into the city – unobtrusively filling a niche no one knew existed, and doing it so well that it seemed to have been there from the beginning.

Now everyone knew the marquis de Carabas, and no one knew anything beyond the name. That thought pleased him very much as most things involving himself did. Of the many things he possessed, modesty was not among them. There were more useful things to obtain, he'd discovered, such as quick wits and the debt of others.

The marquis considered all of London Below his as well, from the rooftops where Old Bailey nattered to his birds, to the deepest caverns where none but the Sewerfolk and Velvets dared enter. But London Below was vast. Frighteningly vast. If he were entirely honest (something he made a point of never being) he'd admit that there were still some places unknown to him. Maps and second-hand reports were hazy at best, and his visitations always had some aspect of business. Sightseeing was for tourists.

But he'd seen more than his share of the city, and had come to know anyone and everyone of importance. And all said people either owed him something or would in the not-too-distant future. Like his namesake he had nothing but owned everything, he mused cheerily. This city was so very lucky to have him.

Now the marquis moved through a newer part of Below with conscious grace. He knew that no one watched but found it easier to live a role than play at it. Here the tunnel widened, but thousands of metal poles jutted from the curved walls, and he carefully kept his coattails from catching.

Once these tunnels had ensured communication throughout London even during bombing raids. Since then the citizens used them on and off for less noble, more capitalistic purposes, but these days they were all but abandoned. This suited the marquis who found them quite expedient for traveling between contacts and also quite private.

As he walked, a hundred plots and schemes flickered through his mind, some of which he dismissed before they entirely formed, while others he filed away for further consideration. His mind always worked best while he was on the move, and so he made a point of never stopping. It also made him that much harder to catch, which he appreciated.

When he turned off into a darker corridor that led to a never-used underground rail line, the marquis managed only three steps before a voice over his shoulder stopped him in his tracks.

"There you are."

Lacking any accusation, the voice sounded soft and untried, yet it held the sort of power humans could not hope to gain in one lifetime. He knew with complete certainty that he had never heard it before, but it hummed through his body with an uncomfortable familiarity. Although they had never met, he knew exactly who this man was, and for the first time in his life, his mind froze – a rabbit in a snake's gaze. It took an extraordinary effort to force a casual smile on his face and then to turn around to face the voice's owner.

When he saw the other, his mind started again with a nasty jerk, rearing into overdrive to make up for lost time. His eyes took in everything in an instant, and everything confirmed his fears. He knew this man though there wasn't a single feature the marquis recognized.

Except the eyes, he corrected. The eyes were just as he remembered.

The marquis arched an eyebrow and bared his teeth in a not-quite smile. "Oh, decided to mix it up a bit, have we?"

And the other certainly had mixed it up. Gone was the blood-red ruby with its cold arrogance. He now wore an emerald that glittered softly in the dim lighting, and it seemed almost friendly in comparison. White had replaced the black of his robes and hair, just as polite caution replaced cold inflexibility. He seemed younger as well, although the marquis was too savvy to actually think in such terms. Everything was different, but nothing had truly changed. Yet, he supposed, that was the way of their kind.

The marquis flashed what he hoped appeared as an untroubled grin and added, "I must admit, dear boy, your former gothic drama did have a certain flare about it."

Dream (and despite the physical changes, the marquis had no doubt that this was the lord of the Dreaming) frowned ever so slightly. "That flare of which you speak belongs to the former me. We are not in fact the same being, so it is not really my drama at all."

The marquis' grin slipped a fraction. "Well, at least your sense of humor is the same."

"What sense of humor?"

"Exactly."

The Dream that the marquis had known would have either brushed off such remarks or made clear his displeasure. This child (as the marquis was coming to think of him despite realizing the foolishness of such condescension) reacted with a thoughtful pause, before a minimal smile softened his solemn features.

"You are unchanged I see. That is good." He looked about the corridor at the chill concrete and battered steel reinforcements. "And this is your new home?"

The marquis forced himself to lean lazily against a pillar, giving the impression of ownership. "Home is not quite the word I'd use, but London Below is where I am currently residing, yes."

Dream nodded thoughtfully, but continued to scan the tunnel. "The others, the dreams I mean, have long since returned to the Dreaming."

This was not a surprise, but the marquis put on an expression of polite interest. "Is that so? Even Sailor's Paradise and your prodigal column?"

"The Corinthian has been...punished. Fiddler's Green is dead."

"Ah."

That was news indeed. The marquis gave an inward shudder imagining the sort of punishment Dream's kind met out to their disobedient subjects but felt no real sympathy. The Corinthian's style had always come off as a bit over the top for the marquis; a little gallows' humor went a long way in his opinion.

Fiddler's Green, on the other hand...he'd been a bit of a bore, but a nice enough chap. That would also confirm the rumors of the Kindly Ones and a conspiracy. He felt a twinge of curiosity and suppressed a hungry smile. Maybe he had been away too long.

Dream was studying him to gauge his reaction, and it irritated the marquis to no end that in all probability, he could hide nothing from the other.

"I suppose you'd like me to come back as well. Keep me out of trouble and all that?" He inspected his fingernails as he spoke. They were as impeccable as life in the sewer allowed, but some amenities he still missed.

Dream walked a few steps toward where the rail would have been placed if war and construction had not ended, and the marquis spared him a leery glance. "Much has happened since I...since my predecessor left the Dreaming for so many years. My attention was diverted, so to speak, and I am still sorting out loose ends. You," Dream turned and caught his eyes, forcing him to look deep into those starry abysses. "are a loose end."

So there it was.

The marquis broke the other's gaze by rolling off the wall and pacing gracefully back and forth. He considered his options. On one hand, he felt a certain amount of nostalgia for the Dreaming. Before his time here in London Below or even in the Dreaming, he'd made a comfortable living in the waking world. In exchange for shelter and a soul or two, he could give anything desired. Simple folk that his clients were, they only wished for food and wealth, but he'd been content filling such a role.

But people had changed. The world had changed. They'd stopped believing, or rather they'd stopped believing in him, but it amounted to the same thing. They preferred a human figure, a devilish figure, and wanted to see the world clearly delineated into good and evil rather than degrees of ambiguity. The world no longer needed his kind and their tricks, and he and the others had begun to fade. They began to forget they were aitvaras, wish-granters and debt-collectors, and became nothing more than remarkably clever house cats.

Then they'd come to the Dreaming, as all ideas do at the end of their lives – destined to spend their remaining tired existence among shadows before going to wherever old ideas go. But while the others had disappeared as snow melts on a spring day, the marquis had grown stronger, learning and living and changing. It was in the Dreaming that he realized how silly souls were as a form of currency. They were baubles that petty gods and demons horded like selfish children. They were of no use to anyone except their rightful owner – and then only rarely.

Words were power. Words and knowledge.

His proposal to the Lord of the Dreaming was simple, delivered with calculated politesse and a silver tongue; it had been his first real deal. Let him remain in the Dreaming and look into the dreams of mortals, and in exchange he'd handle the batibat, who were wild and mean and demanded entrance to the Dreaming when humans roused their anger. The Lord Dream had regarded him in silence, face inscrutable and eyes as dark as death, but eventually accepted. To this day, the marquis did not know whether he had done so out of curiosity or amusement at the marquis' boldness.

But in those days the Dreaming became a sort of home, and he'd learned much from both humans and nightmares. Dream had treated him fairly – as a tenant perhaps or an interloper – but always respected. And most of all he'd had his freedom, which his kind could not exist without. In turn the marquis (although that had not been his name back then) respected Dream, and never tried his usual tricks within the Dreaming. Not often in any case, and never seriously.

And then one day the Dream King had disappeared, and the edges of his realm began to bleed away. The marquis watched as the lesser dreams vanished in puffs of iridescent smoke and parts of the castle melted into sand. This process of decay piqued his interest for a while, but when parts of the Major Arcana decided to leave, the marquis grew bored of the sagging grey land and departed as well.

The waking world had changed much from what he remembered, and his bargaining became sharper and more expensive in response. His acclimation was quick and mostly painless, and he'd grown accustomed to the joys of the realm – the sheer fun of it. Here the laws were newer and more flexible, and that suited the marquis just fine. In particular he'd grown fond of the London Below, which had a certain ambiance (albeit the smelly and dank kind) that wasn't quite comparable to anywhere else.

He thought of the dark tunnels he had yet to prowl. London Below extended beyond the sprawling mass of its Above counterpart, not even including pockets of lost time that were joys in of themselves. There were parts with which he had only sketchy familiarity, and some even he did not care to explore further. He had discovered early on that, while the dangers of the waking world were more banal than those in the Dreaming, they were just as varied and painful.

And then there were the favors – so many debts he had yet to collect, so many lives he had yet to touch. Truly so few people enjoyed a good joke these days. And despite his enthusiastic efforts these past sixty-odd years, there was much he still wanted to do. Needed to do, really, as there was nothing quite as vulgar as a half-finished joke. It would be a pity – a crime even – to leave so much undone.

As a wave of craftsman's pride washed over him, he returned his attention to his visitor, and stretched in a practiced, fluid motion – arms above his head, weight balanced on his toes. If he had a tail, it would have flicked in lazy contentment.

"Hmm, I'm afraid I'll pass for the while. No need to fret, though. I'll find some way to keep myself busy here." He straightened his lapels and brushed miniscule specks of dust from his sleeve. "Perhaps I'll stop by some time, and we can have a nice little chat about the good old days, whichever those were." His expression grew sly, "unless you'd care to make a bargain?"

Dream's face became stern, and his emerald glinted with familiar disapproval. The marquis had the distinct feeling of overstepping his bounds, but he'd have it no other way.

"Very well. Despite your residence in my realm, you are not one of mine, so I cannot command you. It does not matter to me whether you return or stay here, so there is no need to bargain. Of course you will not enjoy the same access to the Dreaming that you did under my predecessor."

The marquis' smile displayed neat, white teeth. "But of course, my Lord. And if that is all, I am afraid there is some business I must attend to. As always it's been a pleasure." He did a flourish that may or may not have been a mocking bow.

Dream acknowledged it with a polite nod, but his eyes seemed to warn the marquis not to try anything. The marquis chuckled in response, honored at being thought so brazen and shameless.

And one moment the Lord of the Dreaming was standing but five paces away, and the next he was gone. No fancy effects and so neatly done that, if not for the afterimage still on the marquis' brain, he might wonder if the other had been there at all – simple but elegant. The marquis approved of the other's dramatic sensibilities.

After a few blinks to reorient himself, the marquis checked his pocket watch with a casual toss of the wrist. He'd been on his way to see Lord Portico, and was now more than fashionably late. Portico had certain powers that even the marquis respected, perhaps feared, but he still took a moment to assess the situation.

The Dreaming was now no longer open to him. It was no great loss, as there were many worlds still left to play in, and he'd avoided it anyway since the Dream Lord's return. Also he had confidence in the London Below that it alone could entertain him for a lifetime or two.

Perhaps in the future those closed doors would reopen themselves. His mind returned to dear Lord Portico, who had his own gift of opening doors. He suppressed a toothy grin but not the amusement in his dark eyes. Feeling a great deal more chipper, the marquis continued toward his rendezvous with the soft-footed step of a hunting cat.

Doors were meant to be opened, especially when others preferred them closed. The marquis de Carabas didn't consider himself contrary – just that he'd never been good at taking 'no' for an answer. As he sauntered on, the hundreds of plots and schemes returned to the forefront of his mind, and he let out a pleased laugh at his personal joke.

Perhaps some day he'd share that joke with the rest of the worlds.