The feast is strung out all among the city, all open-aired; it clutters the boulevards and the courtyards like a giant picnic lit by paper lanterns. People sit on benches, bring their own rugs, pool their resources. The best cooks in the city have been working tirelessly for the last few days to feed their assigned quadrants.

The highlight of the feast takes place in the Courtyard of Public Opinion, where the winners are seated and the best portions of the shangpari roasts are located. Here the celebration is raucous, full of toasts and hugs and quite a few drinks. All of the riders are in high demand for stories and play-by-plays, and although there’s a handful of arguments -- aided somewhat by the freely flowing drinks -- none of them reach any further than the participants needing to be sat down somewhere quiet for a little while.

Even the Foreigners will find themselves welcomed, offered food at nearly every turn, invited to sit with families whom they might know. Though a great deal of the time this seems to be an excuse for the kedan to boast about the race and its tradition, a fair few of the kedan are curious about what analogous races the Foreigners might know from their own worlds.